Directory

I returned home this evening to find that the latest edition of the Manchester South telephone directory had been pushed through my letterbox.

I know: that makes no sense whatsoever. It is not physically possible to push a telephone directory through a letterbox, at least not without reducing most of the door to splinters in the process. Telephone directories are left on the doorstep, where they will cheerfully absorb a large quantity of water if it is raining. Or they are deposited in the porch, if you are fortunate enough to own a porch, and have remembered to leave it unlocked at the time of year when directories are being delivered. Or behind the dustbin, or underneath the garden gnome, or anywhere, really. Mine went through the letterbox.

Telephone directories are not what they once were.  They used to be hefty deadweights of flimsy grey paper, printed in a painfully tiny font, and peppered with uninspiring adverts which only managed to catch your eye because the rest of the page was so unremittingly dull. Circus strongmen would demonstrate their prowess by tearing them in half (in between inflating hot water bottles). They could be used to press wild flowers, build tunnels for model train sets, and wedge doors open in a stiff wind.

But – sadly – no longer. The modern telephone directory is sleek, compact, svelte. It fits through a letter box. It practically fits into your jacket pocket. It would not be a particularly onerous task to memorise the contents from cover to cover, and hence dispense with the hard copy altogether. I presume this is a consequence of the preponderance of the internet, and multiple telecommunications companies, and the coalition government, and the like. But while you applaud the preservation of a few forests-worth of trees, you can't help feeling that a part of our national heritage is slipping away. By this time next year it will be reduced to something you can slip into your wallet.