Upon first glance, the yellow pages is nothing more than an out-dated, wasp-swatting informative directory of people’s names, numbers, and businesses.
However, casting prejudices aside, and literally not judging it like intended - by its cover; it’s a book of romance, loves lost, hopes and dreams manifested into ink and conceived on the sullen brown paper that is all too often, taken for granted. Used, abused and shredded mercilessly for rodent litter or a step ladder for the crestfallen small child, yearning to reach the kitchen sink without mother’s aid.
Hold my hand and ponder with me over Mrs Pevovar, of 34 Linden Avenue, Peterborough. What can we tell about her from this smidgen of insight into her life? I think we’d all safely hedge our bets that house number 34 is quampted right in the middle of the street. In regards to Mrs Pevovar, it’s a reflection of her classic extroverted nature, her need to surround herself with others and keep a consistent aura of vibrancy and gossip around her all at all times, like a residential moon orbiting around the monotonous suburban ring of Saturn,
The sheer weight of the book alone is a marvel unto itself. Like a dwarfing black star or any of the cast of T.O.W.I.E, it’s density is incomprehensible for the human brain.
It’s infamous logo, the fingers twixed over one another implies simplicity, familiarity, a human touch to the written word. A luminous, nostalgic yellow cover. Like a torch from a lighthouse casting over the rocks of doubt and confusion, the last true beacon of hope in a dark, ugly world.
Sit on my lap and stroke my hair as we dwell over Mr Granger of Apartment 55a, Gloucestershire. His apartment block, like himself, soaring high above the sky, looking down on the clouds and mocking them with a baritone chesty laugh that would make Pavarotti seem like a timid mouse trapped in a bell jar. Mr Granger’s choice of apartments naturally reflects obvious exceedingly crippling narcotics dependency, illuminated by his choice of flats, 55 - the average life expectancy of a smart/casual needle-jockey.
The book is full of twists, turns, subplots, main plots and PolPots (12 Upper Lattimore Street, Watford). The only book that can be said to truly unify the nation regardless of background, ethnicity, net worth or shoe size. It’s an ecstatic roller-coaster ride through the British culture, identifying its people, places, troubles, and triumphs stretching across this little rock in the sea. A floating platform of eccentrics snuggled against salty water, rubbing shoulders with the sand and tipping our hats to the crustacean of the sea.