Telephone

Nobody has a real telephone these days. I mean a static telephone, one clamped to a wall or sitting on a bedside table. Nobody. But he has a telephone. A grey one on the desk in his study. It gathers dust well. He has a telephone and, like an idiot, he is waiting for it to ring. While he is waiting he realises that the telephone - its physical, light-grey presence - reminds him of a number of other things that aren't telephones or communication devices of any kind. It reminds him of a shell, because you pick up a shell and put it to your ear. It reminds him of his dog, the one that died when it was barely more than a pup, because of the Cockney rhyming slang for phone. It reminds him of a female hand, because of the way that the receiver is held. It reminds him of football matches, because he shouts at football matches. It reminds him of night because he closes his eyes when he talks on the phone.