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Tangarine or Trampoline? |
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So here you sit in my phone box, a little red blip on a patch of green English grass. In theory the whole world can see it now, the weight of a million eyes, upon the offerings of 8 nimble fingers and 2 noisy thumbs, oh see how my digits twitch. Of course, the planet is littered with phone boxes, so many portals to so many worlds. The only number they give you, is the one etched on the phone inside the box you’re stuck in, and no matter when you dial it, it always seems to be busy. In order to turn transmit to transit, you need to prise numbers from people, getting to know them a little before they entrust you with the door key to their ear. Naturally, my little red phone box reverses this scenario, for I know the phone number, if not you, giving me access to the metaphorical ear of your eyes. Now I am dialling, and the phone is singing, like the train arriving on a newly built line, to pick up architects and take them to the distant town, that creeps upwards on the horizon, stretching to the stars, with each new brick and pane of stained glass that rings in the chorus. Rings...and rings....it rings... ...the phone is ringing...  Pick up receiver....
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