Parked by the eastern entrance to Earl’s Court is something that competes for attention from passers-by with a frozen-yoghurt parlour, a branch of Pret a Manger, and a kiosk selling international newspapers.
When I was there, it was losing to all three.
Like the TV series, it’s a relatively contemporary reimagining of a once ubiquitous staple of everyday life that had ended up somewhat irrelevant and unloved.
Unlike the TV series, it’s seen better days, looks somewhat shabby and could do with sprucing up a bit. The dirt has, however, led to some topical graffiti:
A thoughtfully-embossed brass panel fixed to the box explains who, where and when:
I’m used to being eyed suspiciously while taking photographs outside an Underground station. On this occasion, though, not only did I fail to be eyed at all, I also got the sense of being actively ignored, even shunned. It was as if the twin bodies of the London Underground and Doctor Who had suddenly aligned in such a fashion as to send anybody in close orbit scurrying for less obsessional climes: