Out comes the little bottle of Friar's Balsam (this cold virus is happily developing into its third week of attack); on goes the slowcoach computer.
Close the kitchen cupboard doors so their surfaces reflect the sound; in an hour's time the trusty SM58 microphone will be in my hand, pop-shield clipped to its... shaft? I had set up a microphone stand on Friday, only to have the microphone clip shatter into a mess of shards of plastic and little metal springs, so the hand is the stand today.
Kitchens are superb sound caves. My CD player, which sounds tinny and inconsequential on top of the fridge stuffed full of wilted celery and half-full jars of sticky chutney and jam, leaps into three-dimensional life on top of the half-empty pots'n'pans cupboard, which acts as a sub-woofer speaker, and rocks the room at knee level.
First, bit of admin to get out of the way.