Ducking past the skeletal remains
dug up by the Post office.
Mr Black walked out of the office, carefully sidestepping
the trench required for the new cables for the smart new red telephone box.
He carried a briefcase the size of an ammunition metal case,
Little did we all know then, as we sniggered behind our Max Factor
applied makeup, that within a few years
the appliance he was so proudly touting around the Vale of York
was to impinge greatly on all of our lives.
We all knew to a man (if you'll pardon the expression)
he would within ten minutes be on the dog and bone,
to enquire into the house brick he manfully carried
"Have there been any calls for me?"
With sides splitting I replied
"Well if there are any, get them to phone me on the mobile"
'Over and out!' Rolling on the floor I responded.
The bones of long dead saints, within spitting distance of the Minster
were hastily shovelled back into the ground.
No names, no pack drill!
The newly rewired phone box as unaware,
as we were, as to the sea change that was about to hit.
I mourn those simple days.