The radio and the window

The radio works best beside the kitchen window, with the aerial tilted towards the cupboard. If I move it to make room for a bowl, the voices acquire a faint hiss. I move it back. This is our arrangement.

It belonged to my grandmother. The wooden case has a pale rectangle on top where something stood for years. A photograph, perhaps, though nobody in the family remembers which one. The tuning dial slips a little, and the volume rises abruptly if I turn the knob too far.

I used to leave it switched off because I was afraid of breaking it. When I finally took it to a repair shop, the man behind the counter cleaned a contact, tested the cable and told me to use it. He did not seem to think it required reverence.

Most mornings I turn it on while making breakfast. There are traffic reports for roads I rarely use and interviews with people whose names I miss because the kettle is boiling. Sometimes a programme catches my attention and I sit down to listen. Sometimes I turn it off because I need to think about something else.

I like having a little speech in the room while my hands are occupied. Music is different for me: I tend to choose it carefully, then stop what I am doing to change it. With the radio I am willing to arrive halfway through and leave before the end. There is no list I feel obliged to finish.

Last Tuesday someone described a boat they had spent ten years building. I listened while washing a pan, became interested and forgot to turn the tap off. After the programme I found the rest online and sent it to a friend who repairs furniture. The old radio and the laptop cooperated without difficulty.

Before going out, I turn the radio off and close the window. I leave the aerial where it is. The cat has learned to step around it, which is more care than I sometimes take.