The Lost Art of the Cold Call

It's time to bring back the phone call

Apparently, Gen-Z is plagued with a strange disease called telephobia, the fear of answering the phone. This is a phobia born and bred by our generation’s social-media-induced social awkwardness, and perhaps a bit of pandemic-era social isolation. I wonder exactly when this disease began to spread. I can recall my euphoric reaction upon receiving my first-ever technological device, the iPad mini, which was to last me many years, many inane text exchanges, and many ill-advised Snapchat filter selfies. I whiled away evenings on FaceTime with my childhood best friend because, despite having spent the previous eight hours nattering at school, we clearly couldn’t bear the parting. During lockdown was when my phone call habit peaked, given the government-mandated lack of any school-time nattering, whole days had to be taken up on FaceTime, exchanging banana bread recipes and favoured Chloe Ting workouts (god, dark days). 

Yet, once life finally returned to normal, and we could swap FaceTime calls for park meet-ups, banana bread for a bottle of WKD, the phone-call mania of those days of hibernation faded away. We replaced calls with text messages, voice notes, or long-winded Snapchat video diaries. We stopped calling each other and never started again. 

A recent survey discovered that a quarter of people aged 18-34 never answer their phones; they just ignore the ringing and then respond via text. This is quite a departure from the attitudes of generations gone by. 90s rom-coms depict young lovers twisting telephone cords coyly, engaging in small talk with their crush, only for their sweet confessions of love to be overheard by half the family. Telephone calls soundtracked my childhood, whether it was my dad shushing my brother and my maniacal giggles from the car’s backseats so he could pick up a business call, or my mum catching up with friends on the landline. Over university holidays, I’ve spent evenings desperately missing my friends, longing to return to the rather dark, smelly embrace of Aikman’s cellar, looking at pictures of our nights spent together like a desperate ex while blasting the Cure’s ‘Pictures of You.’ Yet, never did I think to pick up the phone, give them a call and live out a more sober, sanitised version of those Aikman’s nights. Calling feels reserved for one’s family, the scheduled Sunday night calls to prove you’re alive and eating your greens. The thought of calling a friend, with no warning, almost feels perverted, like entering their house without knocking. 

Becoming a (semi) adult is difficult for one plagued by this phobia, considering the amount of calling adulthood apparently requires. Upon turning eighteen, I was horrified that I now had to call the dentist, and my mother couldn’t continue to be my walking, talking planner. “How awkward!” I gasped, “What am I even meant to say?” But this was just the start. Then came the GPs, the opticians, the restaurants that have refused to enter the 21st-century and create an online booking portal, and don’t even get me started on when I had to set up my own mobile phone contract. 

However, somewhere along the way, I eventually realised that this phobia is ridiculous and quite clearly made up. So, I relinquished my telephobia. I get a little buzz now when I call the GP; I almost want the receptionist to congratulate me on how far I’ve come. Over Christmas, I called a friend to catch up, instead of the usual ‘Pictures of You’ routine. I’m a convert, a believer in the cold-call, the ‘I’m just calling to say hi.’ It helps me feel connected to faraway friends, and speeds up days of back-and-forth texting. 

The next step in my telephobia survivor journey might have to be installing a landline in my student flat so I can finally live out my coil-twirling fantasies. 

Illustration from Wikimedia Commons