In 1996, I flew to London to meet Ally—my girlfriend and future wife-to-be—who had been living and working there for a year while I remained back in Cape Town. The plan was simple: reunite, then head off travelling together.
This was, of course, a different world. A world before everyone carried a mobile phone in their pocket. Back then, communication relied heavily on those iconic red phone boxes scattered across London like little beacons of connection.
On one particular day, I decided to visit the Imperial War Museum while Ally finished work. We planned to meet later and begin our adventure.
At some point, I stepped into a phone box to give her a call.
I was mid-conversation—chatting away, probably discussing travel plans—when suddenly, without warning, I felt rough hands grab me and yank me out of the booth.
Before I knew it, I was pushed up against the glass exterior.
Two policemen.
Serious. Urgent.
“Who are you speaking to?!”
Now, it turns out that just a minute before I had stepped into that very phone box, someone had made a bomb threat from it.
And now here I was—freshly installed inside the crime scene—cheerfully calling my girlfriend.
Not ideal timing.
They questioned me, then spoke to Ally, who—thankfully—confirmed my entirely innocent, slightly bewildered story. Gradually, the tension eased. The grip loosened. The suspicion drained.
Eventually, they stepped back.
“You’re free to go,” one of them said.
Then, in a moment that could only happen in Britain, the same officer reached into his pocket, pressed a 20-pence piece into my palm, and offered a polite nod.
"Terribly sorry about that, sir," he said. "A small token of our apology so you can finish your call."
And just like that, I went from suspected terrorist to mildly inconvenienced customer—politely compensated and returned to the phone box.
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