I’m waiting for the phone to ring. This is not a sound I’m particularly eager to hear. It is the sound of anxiety being thrust upon me.

I’ve settled into a routine that functions with and around my adorable collection of neuroses. Some designers thrive upon the constant buzz of the whole ‘human interaction’ fad and would gladly spend all day answering the phone, but I enjoy the solitude of working from home. I control my time and environment and quietness in a fortress of shyness; relying upon the protective moat of my inbox to separate the in-here from the out-there. Design briefs and the ensuing back and forth of feedback benefit from the concise nature of email. It is recorded and precise. I like this. It is tidy.

But sometimes invaders – sorry, clients – breach the defences by having the gall to request a phone call. I mean, it’s fine, they’re paying me for the work, they want to discuss the work, so it’s fine. Fine. It’s just that it’s rather uncommon, so when it does happen, I spiral it into an ‘important event’ and consequently the nerves kick in. I’m daunted. I have to engage in a real, unfiltered conversation, with all of that unseemly immediacy and turn-taking and hearing my own voice. Words fall out of my face in an uncertain, stammered jumble, instantly out of reach for refinement or exclusion.

I’m daunted. I have to engage in a real, unfiltered conversation, with all of that unseemly immediacy and turn-taking and hearing my own voice

Braced for the call, I fall into a pattern of nervous little rituals – pacing and clock-watching and desk-rearranging interspersed with trips to the bathroom. I start fretting about what might go wrong. What if it’s a bad line? What if I get the title of their book wrong? What if they decide my name is David, should I just roll with that? What if they have an impenetrable accent? What if I do?

At least it isn’t a video call. For years, science fiction has presented this technology as one of the great futuristic ideals – but then the future arrived, and it was horrible. All the awkwardness of the telephone, with the added bonus of staring at each other’s foreheads! Impossible to make eye contact, the most basic convention of face-to-face conversation is immediately askew. And you have the added pressure of worrying about what to wear and whether or not your hair is doing that thing it does.

Then there are the distractions. Apparently, I’m expected to pay attention while peering in through this window to another little world. What’s that on their bookshelf? Where did they get that clock? Where’s that cat going? What can they see over my shoulder? Every available surface within the frame is home to a pile of domestic clutter. Washing, toys, games, junior objets d’art – I want to project a sense of clean, minimalist professionalism, but it looks like I’m speaking from the set of Steptoe and Son.

For years, science fiction has presented this technology as one of the great futuristic ideals – but then the future arrived, and it was horrible

Not a problem today. Just a phone call. There’s some comfort knowing it’s going to be one person on the other end – none of that conference call nonsense or passing the phone around between multiple conflicting parties of indeterminate authority (you know a job is going south when you hear the words, “I’ll put my husband on, he has some thoughts”).

Everything will be fine. Probably no more than a few minutes of polite feedback, nothing to worry about. Nerves can be assuaged/harnessed by walking around while talking (it works, no idea why). Can always follow up with an email to clarify details or apologise for my accent. Soon I can pull the drawbridge back up and everything will be serene and tidy and … hang on, are they calling me or am I calling them?

Daniel Benneworth-Gray is a freelance designer based in York, @gray