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The kitchen schedule
Leela crossed "nostalgia hour" off the hall notice and wrote "The Sunday Radio Club" above the dent it left. At seventy-one, the retired presenter resented being treated as an interesting cupboard. Her twenty-seven-year-old neighbour Sam studied the correction. "Can we still have biscuits?" "The future may contain biscuits." She had booked the room from three until five, and she intended to enjoy at least some of it sitting down. Her old wooden radio stood on the table, splendidly off duty.
This was a listening and recording afternoon, not a broadcast. Yesterday they had made two samples in their kitchens: Leela talking about her first Sunday off, and Sam arranging the sounds of a spoon, a window latch and a kettle lid. Their own material, nobody else's voices. Now Sam had the samples on his recorder, Leela had a biscuit tin full of scripts, and the first guests were due soon. "Where shall we begin, producer?" he asked. Leela liked the title. She could begin with her tin, or give his peculiar kitchen orchestra the floor.