By Joe Painter Anthropology PhD student, NERC London DPT
Taken by the author
Deprived these days of loose change and splurged gossip, no longer fat on 20ps or strictly necessary calls, here stands instead a bygone filled with bubblegummed nooks and 2am kebab remnants. What was once a patriotic crimson kiosk has caved to plexiglass and cheap steel; what was once an outpost of today has been outpaced – fallen out of touch, into graffiti fodder, become a pisser for the too-far-gone or an advertising hoarding for amphetamines and escorts.
Listen, if phone calls ever were romantic, it was twirling the cable between fingers or sinking coins to keep her on the line; it was sharing a booth with Ladykillers or Ziggy Stardust beaming down beside. Remember rotating a sweaty thumb, all ears for a dial tone purr in time with your own palpitations? The phone-thudding heart of a landline love echoing back to you? Head to any Deptford crossroads now – you’ll see cords steep in silent bungee, the gallows jerk of handsets left to hang.
I was sat on Eel Brook Common and looking towards a worse-for-wear phone box on the corner. Several people in a row walked past while speaking into their own phones and I realised most people around my age had probably never used a phone box. I remember my mum telling me that, when she was a teenager, if you met someone you liked and got their number, you’d try to call the next day – if it didn’t work you knew they’d given you a fake number and couldn’t be that interested!
This piece is a response to Temporalities, the theme of our 2026 print issue, which you can read here.
Anthropolitan 