It doesn't bother me.

Doesn't get in the way, doesn't take up space.

Only when the doorbell rings do we look at each other in the family with questioning eyes: Who will answer?

Does anyone even answer?

Is it worth getting up from the kitchen table and walking down the long hallway to the puny shelf by the living room door where the landline phone is?

But it almost never rings, and if it does, nobody will probably notice.

If we're sitting at dinner, in case of doubt it's grandma.

Then we can call you back.

Julia Schaaf

Editor in the "Life" department of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Sunday newspaper.

  • Follow I follow

During the day it's different.

When I'm in the home office and interrupt my work because the doorbell rings in the hallway, there's a crackling noise on the other end of the line while someone tries to explain to me in broken English that I urgently need to restart my computer, otherwise there will be trouble.

Or I'm supposed to take part in a survey, it won't take long either.

What else do we have this phone for?

Or a machine voice announces that I've won a lottery and - actually I don't even know what kind of cars and amounts of money I always despise.

I already hung up long ago.

As I shuffle back to my desk, where the headset and Airpods are lying next to the laptop and cell phone, I ask myself unnerved: Why do we still have this phone?

When Telekom announced that it intends to get rid of the last public telephone booths by the end of January, I thought: They could have announced the extinction of the dinosaurs, the end of the Middle Ages or the abolition of the D-Mark.

Everything happened a long time ago, right?

There are hardly any telephone booths left, and there are still a great many of the landline telephones that are similar to those in a museum.

And since then I've really been pondering: What should happen to this useless Telekom device in our hallway?

Think “telephone” and close your eyes: what do you see?

It is probably black, has a dial, a rubber cord twisted into a spiral and a dumbbell-like receiver, heavy even in memory, with a hemisphere each for listening and speaking.

Or it's orange and angular, with buttons arranged in a square like an ATM's number pad.

Or do you immediately think of your mobile phone?

The device in our hallway consists of two parts.

There's a plastic box called a base station and a plug-in handset that looks like the big brother of an early push-button cell phone.

In my mind, this model never really established itself as a phone, it doesn't evoke any emotions.

Even the good old stereo system with speakers the size of a stool has become obsolete due to Internet music and Bluetooth boxes.

But I wouldn't think of denying her her place of honor in the living room.

When I think about saying goodbye to the landline phone, however, I don't even get wistful.

My generation of the Middle Ages was shaped by life-changing telephone experiences.

Like probably all 1980s children, I argued with my parents because, having barely gotten home from school, I blocked contact with the family for the rest of the afternoon.

It was necessary to evaluate and discuss in detail what had happened at school.

How now Stefan had smiled and whether Corinna might be interested in him.

And did you see Melanie today, no, so embarrassing.

.

.

Social media, analogue.