0:01

Welcome to bedtime

0:03

stories for grown ups

0:07

in which nothing much

0:09

happens, you feel

0:11

good, and then you fall

0:13

asleep. I'm

0:16

Catherine Nikolay. I

0:19

write and read every story

0:21

you hear on Nothing Much Happens

0:25

Audio Engineering is by Bob

0:27

Wittersheim.

0:30

If you love these stories, there

0:33

is a whole world waiting for you in

0:35

my book, also called

0:38

Nothing Much Happens. See

0:41

the Busy Bakery on a Saturday

0:43

morning, make the sandwiches

0:46

we eat at the allotment, and

0:48

read sixteen news stories that

0:51

will never be on the podcast. It's

0:54

available all over the world, and

0:57

you can learn more at Nothing Much Happens

1:00

dot com. Let

1:03

me say something about how to

1:05

use this podcast. I'm

1:09

going to tell you a story to

1:11

help you relax and drop

1:13

off into sleep. I'll

1:16

tell it twice, and I'll

1:18

go a little bit slower the second time

1:20

through. The

1:23

story is like a landing pad

1:26

for your mind, a soft

1:28

place for it to rest. If

1:32

you find yourself still awake at the

1:34

end of the first or the second

1:36

telling, don't worry. That's

1:40

a good rule of thumb in general. When

1:42

you're trying to fall asleep, don't

1:45

worry, relax, take

1:49

your mind back to the beginning of the story

1:52

and walk yourself through the details

1:55

that you remember, especially

1:57

any bit that felt particularly

2:00

cozy. You're

2:02

training your brain and body

2:05

to wind down, and the

2:07

more often you do it, the

2:09

faster you will fall asleep. So

2:12

have a bit of patience at the beginning. Now

2:16

it's time to turn off the light, put

2:20

away whatever you were working on or

2:22

playing with, and

2:25

snuggle yourself down into the most

2:27

comfortable position you can find.

2:32

You might have an ideal sleep

2:34

position that's tried and true,

2:38

get into it. All

2:41

of this helps to signal to your brain

2:44

that it's time to close up shop.

2:48

Let's take a slow breath in

2:50

through the nose, the

2:54

soft sigh out of the mouth. One

3:00

more like that, in and

3:06

out. Good.

3:13

Our story tonight is called A

3:16

Block from Home, and it's

3:18

a story about the feeling of coming

3:20

home after a long day and

3:23

finding a quiet place to rest. It's

3:28

also about the feeling of being on

3:30

your own time and

3:32

having the space to do something or

3:35

to do nothing at all. A

3:39

block from Home it

3:44

had been raining since the night before,

3:47

when there were puddles in the street. The

3:52

sky was gray and low. It

3:56

was a September afternoon, and

3:59

it was cool and with a

4:01

breeze that smelled like autumn. I'd

4:07

stopped to block away from my house

4:10

under the yawning of a green grocer,

4:13

and pulled the collar of my raincoat

4:16

a bit higher against my cheek. The

4:21

smell of pears made

4:23

me turn my head away from the

4:25

window of the coffee shop on the

4:27

next corner, where

4:30

I had been watching a few people sipping

4:32

from cups and reading

4:35

newspapers or talking

4:37

with friends. The

4:41

pears were small and green,

4:44

but a little soft, with a

4:46

bruise or two that showed they

4:48

were ready to be eaten. I

4:52

asked for two, and

4:54

also for some almonds that the grocer

4:57

twisted into a piece of brown paper

4:59

for me. After

5:03

I tucked my treats into the

5:05

pocket of my raincoat, I

5:08

drew my hood back up over

5:10

my head and

5:12

crossed the street. I

5:16

was almost home. The

5:20

row of brown stones stood

5:23

shoulder to shoulder. They

5:26

were all the same building, really, just

5:28

repeated over and over,

5:32

and with a few differences in the facades.

5:37

Some had courtyards, some

5:40

had gardens and gates, and

5:44

some had old trees growing

5:46

up through the cracked pavements. All

5:51

of them had wide steps

5:54

and stoops, though

5:56

no one was sitting out on them on a

5:58

day like to day. Mine

6:02

had a tall, wrought iron gate

6:04

and fence that

6:06

closed off my slightly overgrown

6:09

garden from the street. I

6:13

stopped at the gate and looked

6:15

for a moment up and down

6:18

the street. There

6:21

were a few others making

6:23

their way through the rain with

6:27

heads down or tucked into umbrellas.

6:32

My gate has just one key,

6:35

and it was in the house. That

6:39

was how I liked it. I

6:41

didn't need a key.

6:44

I reached up for the heavy gate handle.

6:48

I let my thumb brush across

6:50

a tiny print reader that

6:53

was programmed only to my

6:55

thumb print. No

6:59

one could follow me in here. It

7:03

took less than a second. I

7:06

heard a tiny click in the

7:08

lock mechanism

7:11

and pulled the gate open. It

7:15

locked smoothly behind me, and

7:19

I hurried through the garden and

7:21

up to my front door. I'd

7:25

had enough of the rain. My

7:28

front door worked in much the

7:30

same way as my gate, but

7:34

required a full palm print to

7:36

open. I

7:39

wrapped my hand around the knob and

7:42

it unlocked, and

7:45

I stepped in. I

7:49

sighed, I

7:58

had always enjoyed the feeling of

8:01

closing the door behind me. At

8:03

the end of the day, knowing

8:07

I didn't need to leave the house again

8:09

for the night. Turning

8:13

back to the door, I

8:16

smiled at the row of locks.

8:20

They were a metaphor. The

8:23

door was secure and

8:25

didn't need them,

8:28

but I liked to turn them one

8:31

at a time, just the same,

8:36

twisting the dead bolts,

8:40

sliding the chain, fastening

8:44

the latch. Take

8:48

that world, I said.

8:53

The rain was drumming against

8:55

the window now, and

8:59

I only looked out at the storm

9:02

as it had now become a proper

9:05

storm for a moment

9:08

before pulling the thick velvet

9:11

curtain across. I

9:15

could feel my body becoming

9:18

heavier with each step.

9:22

I was just a few minutes away

9:25

from dropping into a sweet,

9:28

long nap, and

9:31

I knew it. I

9:34

kicked off my boots and

9:37

hung my raincoat on the coat

9:39

rack on my way to

9:41

the library. Passing

9:46

through the kitchen, I pressed the

9:48

button on the electric kettle

9:52

with half an idea of having

9:54

a cup of tea. Likely

9:59

i'd be a before it boiled. The

10:03

library had a deep sofa

10:06

that was long enough to stretch out

10:08

on, and a

10:10

couple of throws and pillows. There

10:15

were proper reading lamps

10:17

set here and there, but

10:20

I left them off. The

10:23

string of fairy lights glowing

10:26

around the tops of the bookshelves

10:29

was perfect. I

10:32

set my pears and almonds

10:34

on a table beside the sofa

10:37

and lay down. I

10:42

looked out at the books for a few minutes,

10:46

with a few snow globes and

10:48

mementos tucked in. The

10:53

kettle was making a soft sound,

10:56

and the rain and thunder were muffled

10:59

and far away.

11:02

My eyes were closing. I

11:06

heard the soft pad of kitty

11:08

paws, then

11:12

a moment of stillness as

11:14

she prepared to jump, and

11:18

she landed on my knees. I

11:23

twisted on to my side and

11:27

she slid into the space behind

11:29

my legs. I

11:33

pulled a blanket up over us, laid

11:37

my face on a soft old

11:39

pillow, and

11:41

closed my eyes. We

11:45

slept a

11:50

block from home. It

11:54

had been raining since the night before,

11:59

and there were puddles in the street.

12:04

The sky was gray and

12:07

low. It

12:11

was a September afternoon, and

12:14

it was cool, with a breeze

12:17

that smelled like autumn. I

12:23

had stopped a block

12:25

away from my house under

12:29

the awning of a green grocer.

12:33

Un pulled the collar of my

12:35

raincoat a

12:38

bit higher against my

12:40

cheek. The

12:44

smell of pears made

12:47

me turn my head away

12:51

from the window of the coffee

12:53

shop on the next

12:55

corner, where

12:58

I had been watching a people sipping

13:01

from cups and

13:03

reading newspapers were

13:06

talking with friends. The

13:11

pears were small and green,

13:15

but a little soft, and

13:17

with a bruise or two that

13:21

showed they were ready to be eaten.

13:28

I asked for two, and

13:30

also for some almonds that

13:33

the grocer twisted into

13:35

a piece of brown paper for

13:38

me. After

13:42

I tucked my treats into

13:44

the pocket of my raincoat, I

13:47

drew my hood back up

13:50

over my head and

13:53

crossed the street. I

13:57

was almost home. The

14:02

row of brown stones stood

14:05

shoulder to shoulder. They

14:10

were all the same building, really,

14:14

repeated over and

14:16

over, and

14:19

with a few differences

14:21

in the facades. Some

14:26

had courtyards, some

14:31

had gardens and gates, and

14:35

some had old trees growing

14:39

up through the cracked pavements.

14:44

All of them had wide

14:47

steps and stoops,

14:50

though no one was sitting out on them

14:53

on a day like today. Mine

14:59

had a tall, wrought iron

15:02

gate and fence that

15:05

closed off my slightly

15:07

overgrown garden from the

15:10

street. I

15:13

stopped at the gate and

15:16

looked for a moment. Up

15:19

and down the street, there

15:23

were a few others making

15:27

their way through the rain

15:31

with heads down or

15:33

tucked into umbrellas.

15:40

My gate has just

15:42

one key,

15:46

and it was in the house. That

15:51

was how I liked it. I

15:56

didn't need a key.

16:00

I reached up for

16:02

the heavy gate handle and

16:06

let my thumb brush across

16:09

a tiny print reader

16:13

that was programmed only

16:17

to my thumb print. No

16:21

one could follow me in here.

16:28

It took less than a second. I

16:32

heard a tiny click in

16:36

the lock mechanism and

16:39

pulled the gate open. It

16:45

locked smoothly behind me,

16:49

and I hurried through the garden

16:53

and up to my front door. I'd

17:00

had enough of the rain. My

17:06

front door worked

17:08

in much the same way as

17:11

my gait, but

17:13

required a full palm print

17:16

to open. I

17:20

wrapped my hand around

17:22

the knob and

17:24

it unlocked, and

17:28

I stepped in. I

17:32

sighed. I

17:41

had always enjoyed the

17:44

feeling of

17:46

closing the door behind me at

17:49

the end of the day, knowing

17:54

I didn't need to leave the house

17:56

again for the night.

18:02

Turning back to the door, I

18:06

smile at the row of locks. They

18:11

were a metaphor. The

18:16

door was secure and

18:19

didn't need them,

18:22

but I liked to turn them

18:25

one at a time, just

18:28

the same, twisting

18:32

the dead bolt, sliding

18:36

the chain, fastening

18:40

the latch. Take

18:45

that world, I said. The

18:52

rain was drumming against

18:54

the window now, and

18:58

I only looked out at

19:00

the storm

19:03

as it had now become

19:06

a proper storm for

19:08

a moment before

19:12

pulling the thick velvet

19:15

curtain across. I

19:22

could feel my body becoming

19:24

heavier with each

19:27

step. I

19:32

was just a few minutes away

19:35

from dropping into a sweet, long

19:39

nap, and

19:42

I knew it. I

19:46

kicked off my boots and

19:49

hung my raincoat on the coat

19:51

rack on my way

19:54

to the library, passing

19:59

through the kitchen, and I pressed

20:01

the button on the electric kettle

20:05

with half an idea of having

20:07

a cup of tea.

20:11

Likely i'd be asleep before

20:14

it boiled. The

20:19

library had a deep sofa

20:22

that was long enough to stretch out

20:24

on, and

20:27

a couple of throws and pillows.

20:32

There were proper reading lamps

20:35

set here and there, but I

20:38

left them off. The

20:42

string of fairy lights glowing

20:45

around the tops of the bookshelves

20:47

was perfect. I

20:51

set my pears and almonds

20:54

on a table beside the sofa

20:57

and lay down. I

21:03

looked out at the books for a

21:05

few moments, with

21:09

a few snow globes and

21:11

mementos tucked in. The

21:16

kettle was making a soft sound,

21:20

and the rain and thunder were muffled

21:23

and far away.

21:27

My eyes were closing. I

21:31

heard the soft pad of

21:33

kitty paws and

21:36

a moment of stillness as

21:39

she prepared to jump, and

21:43

she landed on my knees. I

21:49

twisted unto my side and

21:52

she slid into the space behind

21:54

my legs. I

21:58

pulled a blanket up over

22:01

us, laid

22:04

my face on a soft old

22:06

pillow, and

22:10

closed my eyes. We

22:14

slept sweet

22:18

dreams.