Family Album: The Terrible Agony of the White Phone When it Doesn’t Ring (Or Maybe When it Does)
There really wasn't that much to do. Back in damp-priest-riddled, early-80s Ireland. Especially if you were a wife and mother.
Choices were stark and choices and simple. And really limited. You could sit munching a communion wafer (or sucking an Oatfield sweetie) from mid-afternoon on a Friday, waiting, desperately, for the misanthropic Uncle Gaybo's Late Late to start, or you could curl up on a gold couch and sob. Beside a white telephone. Like Isabella Rossellini.
My mother always chose the latter option. Always. I played Subbuteo.
June 14, 2011
6 responses to Family Album: The Terrible Agony of the White Phone When it Doesn’t Ring (Or Maybe When it Does)
I can’t stop giggling at this.
Also, that’s quite a dress. Love those reflective stripes on the sleeves.
It’s a dressing gown. She may well still have it.
The phone is no more. Alas. It was our conduit to another world. I never knew who (or what) was speaking from the other side…but judging by my mum’s reaction it was someone/something unutterably awesome and terrifying and dreadful. Ctulhu, maybe. Or “The Banker”.
Maybe I should get in some of that wallpaper, to go with my maternal sobbing.
ahaha, ‘The Banker’.
Don’t forget the white telephone. The white telephone is essential. It creates an unbearable and nerve-shredding tension.
It’s like she just got a phone call from Columbo. He finally wore her down. The jig is up, Mrs Byrne…