I couldn’t help but smile the whole time I was reading Viv Groskop’s article (Chasing a Missing Date, The Numbers I’ll Never Forget: We’ll Never Achieve the Magic of a Landline, August 2). It all rang true, sort of. No four digits, our family landline in the 1960s had three digits, which are seared into my brain. Then we moved to a city and had five digits, which later became six, no less. When Mom answered, she would say them slowly and carefully until she recognized the caller, and then her voice could radiate pure joy if it turned out to be an old friend.

Our phone was mounted on the wall next to the front door and was, as Viv says, a sort of gateway to everything else. I remember waiting all day for a call from a boy I liked, wishing the phone would ring, until I realised that Nan had cut the line while she was cutting roses. It turns out that wasn’t the best combination, so maybe Nan did know a thing or two about landlines and boys after all.
Katharina Suttle
London

We’ve had a landline phone since the early 1930s, as long as I can remember. It was next to the front door so you could talk in private without disturbing the rest of the house. My grandparents’ phone, on the other hand, was on the sideboard in the rarely used dining room in their three-story terraced house, and stood out among the heavy furniture and the massive dining table. At least it would have been noticeable if it hadn’t been covered by a bulky tea-cover, because a “naked” phone was “not nice.” The bell was in the hallway.
Daniel Zerdin
London

In 1968, at the age of 18, I started working as a telephone operator. When a caller asked for the boss, I would say, “Who’s calling?”, put them on hold, and get on the boss’s line. “Tell him I’m not here,” was the reply. It was busy. When I got back on the caller’s line, I blurted out something I’ll never forget: “He says he’s not here.”
Janette Ward
Tarrington, Herefordshire