Chocolate and Cuckoo Clocks by Alan Coren Read Free Book Online

Telephone approximates to that of England, that it is wealthier than the five wealthiest states in the Union, that soon it will have a satellite all to itself, and so on. I was beyond surprise by Bell. And then, on the last page of the pamphlet, I came on this: ‘At present there are more than 85 million phones in the U.S., and by 1975 there will be more than 160 million.’ I went back and re-read it. And realised that the telephone was reproducing at approximately three times the rate of the population of China. This in itself, all other implications aside, had a staggering effect on me. Until then, I had, like almost everyone else, accepted as the two yardsticks by which all other quantities were to be measured, the distance to the Moon, and the population of China. (I have never needed any others, since, at fourteen, I spent two weeks in bed on glucose following a maths master’s attempts to conceptualize infinity for me. We cornered it at one point, and had it belittled to the ignominy of one-over-nothing. I thought about this for a few moments; then I cracked.) Told that: ‘The 1962 model was driven 250,000 miles on two quarts of oil and one tyre-change. This is the distance from here to the Moon’, I am happy. Or that: ‘In 1961, we manufactured one billion ballbearings, or enough to give every man, woman, and child in China two ballbearings each’, I know where I stand. Or knew. Not any longer. Now that small fund of conversation-stopping statistics that I have hoarded for bad moments at parties will have to be completely revised in terms of telephones, lengths of cable, warehouse-loads of dials. I shall have to teach my sons that every fifth child born is destined to become a telephonist. Stuff like that.
    The Instrument cut through this morbid reverie. A voice of metallic silk introduced itself, and elicited a file-full of irrelevant personal information before asking, finally:
    â€˜Now, sir, how large is the apartment?’
    â€˜Three rooms,’ I said.
    â€˜So you should be able to get along with only one extension. Is that to be a wall-phone, or a Princess Bedside?’
    â€˜I want one instrument,’ I said. ‘With a long cord.’
    A metal snigger.
    â€˜Oh, come, sir! Nobody has long cords any more. Our researchers found that so many accidents were caused by cords getting tangled up with children and pets and things of that nature.’
    â€˜I haven’t got anything of that nature,’ I said.
    â€˜Well, at least you’ll need a Home Interphone. So that you can communicate with the party in the other rooms.’
    â€˜There aren’t any parties. I live alone.’
    â€˜Don’t you ever have guests?’
    Of course, since she lived at the end of a lavender cable, the idea that people actually indulged in the gross obscenity of talking face to face could hardly be insisted upon by me.
    â€˜No,’ I said meekly, ‘No guests’.
    A pause. I could see the inside of her brain visualising a banner headline: ‘ONE-PHONE RECLUSE FOUND STRANGLED BY ANTIQUE CORD. BODY DISCOVERED AFTER THREE WEEKS BY JANITOR’. I wanted to meet her, I wanted her to see that I was healthy, that there was a spring in my step, that I smiled. But this was impossible.
    â€˜Oh, well,’ said the voice. ‘Of course, you can never tell when a party may drop by.’ I wondered whether she was human enough to be trying to console me. The voice sighed, and went on: ‘Well then, sir, perhaps we can decide on the colour of the Instrument’.
    â€˜Black.’
    A tin gasp.
    â€˜Beige, green, grey, yellow, white, pink, blue, turquoise!’ A pause. ‘Nobody has black, sir. We couldn’t guarantee a new Instrument in black. What is the colour-scheme of your room?’
    In fact, it’s pale-green. But I knew the consequences of my admitting this. So I joked. I thought.
    â€˜It’s black,’ I said. ‘Black wallpaper,