Busy

Phone booth killers.
     Was that actually a thing, or just a film or something? And does it actually mean you get slaughtered within the confines of a phone box, or is it more of a technique that the murderer uses to contact you from a neutral number?

     My mind races, as does Camden town around me. Too many cars, too many people, too much noise. I ache to find my way back to the coast, away from this city that careens along at two hundred miles per hour.

     I need a taxi number. A lift to Euston station and I’m one more step towards home. Home, where I can sleep for days. Where my ears can stop ringing, and where I can blissfully go a week without hardly seeing a soul.

     Eleven digits away from my ticket out of here. I scan the inside of the phone box, and see a multitude of stickers crudely attached to the walls. Without an inch uncovered, the interior resembles a mosaic, but not the type to grace a place of worship.

     Sex hotlines. Many of them, all vying for the opportunity to alleviate your sense of loneliness. ‘Fetish Fone’, ‘X Cite Hotline’, ‘Triple X Chat’ and many others too vulgar to repeat. That’s not to mention the pictures. Busty blondes and a brunette boasting twice the make-up of a clown. A sixteen year old adolescent boy would combust in here.

     As much as I want to turn away, I begin to think about the type of people who use these lines. Do they not realise that the women on the other end is less a horny 20 year old beauty and more a middle-aged mother struggling to pay her mortgage? And once you’ve blown your load, they go on to speak with the next caller, having a carbon copy of the previous conversation.

     I remember the ticket inspector on the way over to London. Hearing her voice over the speakers was almost enough to start shopping for an engagement ring, but once I’d seen the person that the voice belonged to, I hastily began to erase any impromptu (and most likely inappropriate) wedding plans.

     I snap out of it, choosing one of the taxi firm numbers at random from the myriad of business cards stuck right next to ’20-30s Hot Chat’. When asked where I want to be picked up from, I shield my eyes against the sun, trying to aim a stare through the countless bodies to find a landmark, somewhere that a taxi driver would know. ‘The World’s End pub’.

     My sigh of relief is genuine as I clamber into the cab. This everyday hero has come to take me away from this overpopulated human ant farm. He asks where I’m going to. "Euston station" I reply. He follows up by asking where I’m catching the train to, politely pattering in an attempt to earn a tip. "Plymouth. I’m going back home."
     Turning on the air conditioning, he glances at me in the rear view mirror. "The coast, eh? Must be pretty busy there at this time of year?"