The New York Times reports on a nostalgic surge for landline phones in the US. In parallel with the resurgent affection for VHS tapes and record players, young people are apparently drawn to old-fashioned corded, non-digital instruments as an antidote to screen fatigue and bottomless distraction. They like the idea of a tool that only does one thing: makes phone calls.
To the British this may sound like missing something that never quite went away. Although landlines are in sharp decline in the UK, four in five households still have one, even if a quarter of us don’t have a phone plugged into it. Mine was installed only five years ago, as an inescapable element of a new broadband/TV package. I have never used it; I’m not even sure what my phone number is.
I don’t miss the landline, because I remember that by the end it served exclusively as a conduit for nuisance calls. I stopped answering it, and then I unplugged it so it would stop ringing. If I wanted to, I could have it back in my life tomorrow.
For young Americans, however, the nostalgia is hard won: only 30% of homes still have landlines. In most cases, their prized old-fashioned handsets – models from the 50s and 60s are especially popular – have been refitted so they can connect to a mobile phone network via Bluetooth. They haven’t returned to the age of the landline at all. They’ve just found a way to make placing a mobile call more difficult.
In a sense, that’s what nostalgia is: a yearning to retreat to a past you don’t remember. The old landline system came with its own annoyances: the tyranny of its constant ringing, the engaged signal, the ropey service, the never knowing who might be calling. It didn’t slow life down to a more manageable pace. It just held things up.
Somewhere in a box in our attic sits an old red rotary-dial phone that belonged to my wife. If you’re old enough you may recall a previous wave of nostalgia for these, in the 80s. They also had to be refitted to cope with modern wiring. You could buy them from market stalls.
With any luck, the red phone will stay in that box. But I’m happy knowing it’s there, ready to plug in, so that one day, when the apocalypse comes, we will still be able to order pizza.
Tim Dowling is a Guardian columnist
