I have started to appreciate an old-fashioned natter
Everybody has a mobile phone. Or at least more than five billion of us do. And yet nobody makes phone calls any more. In fact, the under-30s have been called Generation Mute, for their habit of refusing to accept incoming calls. A recent UK survey found that just 15% of 16- to 24-year-olds would choose phone calls as their favoured method of communication. I once read an article with the headline: “If I get a phone call, I assume someone has died.”
I used to feel similarly, but recently my opinion has shifted, and I have come to appreciate phone calls the way I did during my school days: when I’d almost pull the landline phone out of its socket in a desperate attempt at privacy, wrapping the cord around my fingers and spending a solid two hours talking to friends I’d just spent the majority of the day with; staying on the line for so long that the screeching dial-up sounds of my sister attempting to get on the internet would repeatedly interrupt, while dinners cooled and congealed on the dining room table.
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