Will I be the last person to do this? The storm had been chasing me for two miles when I saw the telephone box. I headed quickly for it – a red beacon in a steadily darkening world. As I opened the doors, the first drops landed. Soon the rain was drumming on the metal roof. Spirits lifting, I stared out through the dusty panes. How many people before me have found shelter in this welcoming, currant red kiosk? Instinctively, I lifted the receiver, and reached out as though to put 10p in the slot. How well I remember the queues that used to form at our local phone box; the knuckles that knocked if you went on too long; the wonky towers of tuppences. The first phone boxes appeared 90 years ago, and as the rain rose and fell, I seemed to catch the echo of those decades of conversations.