Speaker 1: Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups, in which nothing
Speaker 1: much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
Speaker 1: I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read all the stories
Speaker 1: you hear and nothing much happens. Audio Engineering is by
Speaker 1: Bob Wittersheim. My book, also called Nothing Much Happens, is
Speaker 1: available wherever books are sold. Thank you for your support.
Speaker 1: Let me say something about how to use this podcast.
Speaker 1: I'm going to tell you a story to help you
Speaker 1: relax and drop off into sleep. I'll tell it twice,
Speaker 1: and I'll go a little bit slower the second time through.
Speaker 1: The story is like a landing pad for your mind,
Speaker 1: a soft place for it to rest. If you find
Speaker 1: yourself still awake at the end of the first or
Speaker 1: the second telling, don't worry. That's a good rule of
Speaker 1: thumb in general. When you're trying to fall asleep, don't worry. Relax.
Speaker 1: Take your mind back to the beginning of the story
Speaker 1: and walk yourself through the details that you remember, especially
Speaker 1: any bit that felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain
Speaker 1: and body to wind down, and the more often you
Speaker 1: do it, the faster you will fall asleep. So have
Speaker 1: a bit of patience at the beginning. Our story tonight
Speaker 1: is called A Block from Home, and it's a story
Speaker 1: about the feeling of coming home after a long day
Speaker 1: and finding a quiet place to rest. It's also about
Speaker 1: the feeling of being on your own time and having
Speaker 1: the space to do something or to do nothing at all.
Speaker 1: Now it's time to turn off the light, put away
Speaker 1: whatever you were working on or playing with, and snuggle
Speaker 1: yourself down into the most comfortable position you can find.
Speaker 1: You might have an ideal sleep position that's tried and true,
Speaker 1: get into it. All of this helps to signal to
Speaker 1: your brain. But it's time to close up shop. Let's
Speaker 1: take a slow breath in through the nose, a soft
Speaker 1: sigh out of the mouth, one more like that, in
Speaker 1: and out. Good. A block from home that had been
Speaker 1: raining since the night before, and there were puddles in
Speaker 1: the street. The sky was gray and low. It was
Speaker 1: a September afternoon, and it was cool and with a
Speaker 1: breeze that smelled like autumn. I'd stopped to block away
Speaker 1: from my house under the yawning of a greengrocer and
Speaker 1: pulled the collar of my raincoat a bit higher against
Speaker 1: my cheek. The smell of pears made me turn my
Speaker 1: head away from the window of the coffee shop on
Speaker 1: the next corner, where I had been watching a few
Speaker 1: people sipping from cups and reading newspapers or talking with friends.
Speaker 1: The pears were small and green, but a little soft,
Speaker 1: with a bruise or two that showed they were ready
Speaker 1: to be eaten. I asked for two, and also for
Speaker 1: some almonds that the grocer twisted into a piece of
Speaker 1: brown paper for me. After I tucked my treats into
Speaker 1: the pocket of my raincoat, I drew my hood back
Speaker 1: up over my head. Acrossed the street, I was almost home.
Speaker 1: The row of brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They
Speaker 1: were all the same building, really, just repeated over and over,
Speaker 1: and with a few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards,
Speaker 1: some had gardens and gates, and some had old trees
Speaker 1: growing up through the cracked pavements. All of them had
Speaker 1: wide steps and stoops, though no one was sitting out
Speaker 1: on them on a day like to day. Mine had
Speaker 1: a tall, wrought iron gate and fence that closed off
Speaker 1: my slightly overgrown garden from the street. I stopped at
Speaker 1: the gate and looked for a moment up and down
Speaker 1: the street. There were a few others making their way
Speaker 1: through the rain with heads down or tucked into umbrellas.
Speaker 1: My gate has just one key, and it was in
Speaker 1: the house. That was how I liked it. I didn't
Speaker 1: need a key. I reached up for the heavy gate handle.
Speaker 1: I let my thumb brush across a tiny print reader
Speaker 1: that was programmed only to my thumb print. No one
Speaker 1: could follow me in here. It took less than a second.
Speaker 1: I heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and
Speaker 1: pulled the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and
Speaker 1: I hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
Speaker 1: I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
Speaker 1: in much the same way as my gait, but required
Speaker 1: a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
Speaker 1: around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
Speaker 1: I sighed. I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
Speaker 1: the door behind me at the end of the day,
Speaker 1: knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
Speaker 1: the night. Turning back to the door, I smiled at
Speaker 1: the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
Speaker 1: was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
Speaker 1: turn them one at a time. Just the same, twisting
Speaker 1: the dead bolt, sliding the chain fastening the latch. Take
Speaker 1: that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
Speaker 1: window now, and I only looked out at the storm
Speaker 1: as it had now become a proper storm for a
Speaker 1: moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
Speaker 1: feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
Speaker 1: just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
Speaker 1: long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
Speaker 1: boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
Speaker 1: my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
Speaker 1: pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
Speaker 1: idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd be
Speaker 1: asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
Speaker 1: that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
Speaker 1: couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
Speaker 1: set here and there, but I left them off. The
Speaker 1: string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
Speaker 1: bookshelves was perfect. I set my pairs and almonds on
Speaker 1: a table beside the sofa and lay down. I looked
Speaker 1: out at the books for a few minutes, with a
Speaker 1: few snow globes and mementoes tucked in. The kettle was
Speaker 1: making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder were
Speaker 1: muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I heard
Speaker 1: the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment of
Speaker 1: stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed on
Speaker 1: my knees. I twisted on to my side and she
Speaker 1: slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
Speaker 1: blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
Speaker 1: old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept a block
Speaker 1: from home. It had been raining since the night before,
Speaker 1: and there were puddles in the street. The sky was
Speaker 1: gray and low. It was a September afternoon, and it
Speaker 1: was cool, with a breeze that smelled like aute. I
Speaker 1: had stopped a block away from my house under the
Speaker 1: awning of a green grocer and pulled the collar of
Speaker 1: my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek. The smell
Speaker 1: of pears made me turn my head away from the
Speaker 1: window of the coffee shop on the next corner, where
Speaker 1: I'd been watching a few people sipping from cups and
Speaker 1: reading newspapers or talking with friends. The pears were small
Speaker 1: and green, but a little soft and with a bruise
Speaker 1: or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
Speaker 1: I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
Speaker 1: the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
Speaker 1: After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
Speaker 1: I drew my hood back up over my head and
Speaker 1: crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
Speaker 1: brownstones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the same building, really,
Speaker 1: repeated over and over, and with a few differences in
Speaker 1: the facades. Some had court yards, some had gardens and gates,
Speaker 1: and some had old trees growing up through the cracked pavements.
Speaker 1: All of them had wide steps and stoops, though no
Speaker 1: one was sitting out on them on a day like
Speaker 1: to day. Mine had a tall, wrought iron gate and
Speaker 1: fence that closed off my slightly overgrown garden from the street.
Speaker 1: I stopped at the gate and looked for a moment,
Speaker 1: and down the street there were a few others making
Speaker 1: their way through the rain, with heads down or tucked
Speaker 1: into umbrellas. My gate has just one key, and it
Speaker 1: was in the house. That was how I liked it.
Speaker 1: I didn't need a key. I reached up for the
Speaker 1: heavy gate handle and let my thumb brush across a
Speaker 1: tiny print reader that was programmed only to my thumb print.
Speaker 1: No one could follow me in here. It took less
Speaker 1: than a second. I heard a tiny click in the
Speaker 1: lock mechanism and pulled the gate open. It locked smoothly
Speaker 1: behind me, and I hurried through the garden and up
Speaker 1: to my front door. I'd had enough of the rain.
Speaker 1: My front door worked in much the same way as
Speaker 1: my gait, but required a full palm print to open.
Speaker 1: I wrapped my hand around the knob and it unlocked,
Speaker 1: and I stepped in. I sighed, I had always enjoyed
Speaker 1: the feeling of closing the door behind me at the
Speaker 1: end of the day, knowing I didn't need to leave
Speaker 1: the house again for the night. Turning back to the door,
Speaker 1: I smiled at the row of locks. They were a metaphor.
Speaker 1: The door was secure and didn't need them, but I
Speaker 1: liked to turn them one at a time, just the same,
Speaker 1: twisting the dead bolt, sliding the chain fastening the latch.
Speaker 1: Take that world, I said. The rain was drumming against
Speaker 1: the window now, and I only looked out at the
Speaker 1: storm as it had now become a proper storm for
Speaker 1: a moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I
Speaker 1: could feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I
Speaker 1: was just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
Speaker 1: long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
Speaker 1: boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
Speaker 1: my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
Speaker 1: pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
Speaker 1: idea of having a cup of tea. Likely I'd be
Speaker 1: asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
Speaker 1: that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
Speaker 1: couple of throes and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
Speaker 1: set here and there, but I left them off. The
Speaker 1: string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
Speaker 1: book shelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds
Speaker 1: on a table beside the sofa and lay down. I
Speaker 1: looked out at the books for a few moments, with
Speaker 1: a few snow globes and mementoes tucked in. The kettle
Speaker 1: was making us offt sound and the rain and thunder
Speaker 1: were muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I
Speaker 1: heard the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment
Speaker 1: of stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed
Speaker 1: on my knees. I twisted onto my side and she
Speaker 1: slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
Speaker 1: blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
Speaker 1: old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept sweet treat es.