There was one time we were away. We wanted to call home, say how we were, what we’d been up to. Chat. Reassure.

It must have been about 14 years ago. There were no mobile phones, but the village had a phone box. Two phone boxes, to be precise, but one was out of order.

We went to the box, thinking we could have a quick call – it was about 7, 7.30 I guess. Summer, so the evening was light. Then it was to be off to get some food, and then, I guess a drink. And back to the guest house.

But we hadn’t allowed for the woman. In the phone box. Dialling. Hearing the phone ring out. And then redialling. And redialling. And redialling. The queue didn’t realise this to start with. It was only after twenty minutes that we paid more attention to the growing numbers behind us, and the lack of any decline in front of us, and realised that something was amiss.

Someone knocked on the door.

“I’m trying to get though,” she said.

It was met with an apt response. We only had to wait for another ten minutes after that before she gave up, left the kiosk, and the queue died down in minutes.

Our target phone number was answered in three rings.

Who are you. Really? When you’re standing in front of the unblinking reflection in the mirror.

Its a difficult question.

What do you see when you wipe the glass clear. A face. Recognisable in appearance. But inside? Who is really there? What thoughts, what hopes, dreams, belief? The eyes are dulled in the reflection, devoid of the spark that should make them engage.

Finding a place is so often done without thought; people are doing things not because it may be right, but because it fits into convention and expectation. Perhaps they don’t want to think about it? Maybe drifting from place to place, job to job, is the ideal?

But perhaps people have low expectations. Or no expectations. Achievement is a reduced scale; the abililty to save enough for a new car, or holiday, or a promotion above the head of a colleague. All minor self obsessions, a little people following Narcissus with blinkered lack of wonder.

Are my hopes any different? My dreams? Who can say. I don’t have the scope to read your mind. I can’t scan your brainwaves for thoughts – I’ve tried, of course, but the TV needs a new aerial. For now its just observation. And TV.

TV’s shared consciousness is a comfort. I know how to fit in here; so do you. Passive participation. You can even drink tea at the same time. And then, tomorrow, around the water cooler – a conversation with those with whom you might otherwise refuse to speak.

Of course this ignores the elite. The elite are those on screen. The stars. People for whom personal identity is fame – at least to their fans – whose adoration and following supplies their place in the world, without concern for individuality.

In the mirror. Beneath the surface. Inside. What is the identity. What place in the world. What value the person?

What person?

Hello.

I never paid much attention to you at School, University or in those clubs or workplace when we used to know each other. You used to try to speak to me, but to be honest; you were a bit of an embarrassment. I was trying to get in with the cooler kids / gang / programmers, and you and your buck teeth were a pain in the neck.

I don’t know why you’ve bothered looking here for me. Think of it. The name. Friendsreunited. If you were a friend, would we really need this site? Of course not. We’d have stayed in contact, and there would be no need for some social regenerative facilitation in order to allow us to speak again.

I say that in jest. We never spoke to start with. How can we speak again?

Perhaps you’re from the other crowd. Fucked up your life and stuck in a rut, hoping that everyone from your previous peer group did the same, that you can share cynicism and regret, and maybe, just maybe, that will get you into the pants of the one who you used to fancy, a long time ago, think you still do, think there could be just the slightest chance, despite that person not replying to your calls or messages or emails, moving away, unannounced.

So what are you doing now? Me, I’m running a multi-national company, living in three countries, and have a beautiful partner and kids. I was lucky, of course, to do all this so young, and I have to work hard to maintain the salary.

Life is good.

And you?

There was a lorry in town with a red phone box on the back, stolen from the street. (A K6, I think, for those who are interested. Also known as the Jubilee type.)

The man removing said box was quite knowledgeable about them. Said he’d like one himself. And that the one that had been removed would most likely be refurbished and then reinstalled somewhere else.

New street furniture is so dull, and I simply can’t imagine it capturing the emotions in the same way. Sure, Alec Clifton Taylor was emotional about concrete lamp posts, but that was in terms of hatred, nothing more. And it must have been about 20 years ago, at the very least.

Modern technique seems so often to be to remove the detail, to the extent that there is frequently no room left for the expression of anything more than a purely functional design. It seems amazing that so few people notice the reduction and cultural homogenisation of their environment. New phone boxes are based on a US design – gone are the glory days of a GPO competition. Clifton Taylor would no doubt applaud the removal of concrete lamp posts, yet be appalled by their ever blander replacement. No room now for the weathering and bedding in afforded to the concrete design, or to the fantastic wrought struts of the Victorians.

The environment about us is bastardised by the removal of the familiar and the well made, and its replacement with designs whose only appeal is that of cost. The value of the aesthetic is lost, as pavements are blocked with badly placed steel posts and advertising boards. Worse still, the long term sense of cobbles or blocks that weather well and can be relaid when works are required is thrown out for the convenience of tarmac, smoothing over everything for the two weeks before cracks appear or it is torn up to replace a leaking main.

I blame that attitude that says that a car is simply for getting from A to B. That’s no more true than clothes are simply to keep us warm, or TV is to stop us from thinking. Sure, it may be true for some, but it willfully ignores the benefits of a well designed environment.

The trouble with not having a dishwasher is that there is an inevitable stack of plates at all times in the kitchen.

That is, until now.

I have invented something that ensures that a dishwasher can be fitted into even the smallest room of the house.

In fact, perhaps its most likely that this will always be used in the smallest room.

The Patent Toilet Bowl Dishwasher Cage.

This simple wire basket sits inside the porcelain, and has sufficient space to contain a bachelor sized assortment of crockery and cutlery. Simply pour on some washing up liquid (or shampoo, since you will most likely be in the bathroom) and repeatedly flush the toilet.

Your dishes will emerge sparklingly clean.