Transmission 1

Transmission: A plush, artfully-made-up studio, foreground shows a comfy red sofa against a yellow backdrop. There sits the pop singer, slouched relaxedly forward, but as though ready to spring into action, her fountaining cascade of hair, her limbs bare.
Her mouth playfully loose, as though playing pierced tongue against palette. She conveys jumpiness, excitability, as though ready to jump up and wrestle someone.
Sitting next to her is a Dame or Duchess of somewhere or other.
We tune in half-way through the conversation, an informal dialogue or the pop singer is interviewing. Her interview skills are not well developed, lines of inquiry somewhat flat, and too ready to burst into coarse laughter.
This Dame what's-her-name sits fragile and dour, in fact she looks slightly frightened, a partial downturn of mouth, her old wrists resting limply on her knees. Now this one belongs to the upper echelons of society, she's perhaps a distant cousin of the Queen.
So aristocratic is she that she has seemed to transcend class and become frozen into absolute rigidity, like a pristine, priceless piece of crystal. As though even to speak would be partially to lower herself.
The pop singer, playful and provocative, and at the same time brash and loud-mouthed, irks the lady somewhat. After a few polite and well-delivered phrases, an outmoded witticism in the best possible taste, the pop singer interrupts: "Yer accent's very posh. D'you ever get embarrassed by it?"
At last a serious line of questioning.