Radio Premonition, Three Songs Deep

I drive a coastal delivery loop with local radio for company — live shows, not playlists, the kind where the DJ forgets which button does what.

On a Tuesday around four, mid-song, the sensation opened up: this drive has happened. The gull on the same lamp post: seen. The van ahead braking for no reason at the layby: seen. Fine — roads repeat, brains stitch. But then, idling at the level crossing, I 'remembered' what came next on the radio, and what came next was not guessable. The current song would end and the DJ would play 'Golden Brown' — but talk over the harpsichord intro apologising for 'yesterday's weather mix-up'. Then an obscure one: 'Echo Beach'. Then he would start a third song, the wrong one, kill it after two seconds with a clunk, laugh, and play 'Wichita Lineman'.

I sat at that crossing and recited the sequence out loud to the windscreen, partly to fix it as a prediction rather than let my memory cheat afterwards. I even said 'clunk', feeling like a lunatic in a high-visibility vest.

The song ended. Harpsichord. 'Apologies to everyone about the weather mix-up yesterday—' My arms went to gooseflesh in one wave. 'Echo Beach' followed. Then two seconds of something uptempo, a clunk exactly like a fader knocked with an elbow, a laugh, and 'Wichita Lineman'.

Three songs, one apology, one technical fumble, in order, on live radio, from a man improvising his afternoon.

I called the station that evening, feeling insane, and asked whether the four-o'clock hour was pre-recorded. The DJ himself answered the request line and was delighted: no, live as ever, why? I told him the whole sequence. He was quiet, then said, 'Mate, I didn't know I was playing Echo Beach until I pulled the sleeve out.'

Neither did I, I said. Except I did.