April 28, 2018 • 22 mins
Turn off the light, get comfortable, and let us tell you a story. These are bedtime stories for grownups, in which nothing much happens, you feel good and then you fall asleep.
So get cozy and ready to sleep.
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
Purchase Our Book: https://bit.ly/Nothing-Much-Happens
See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
Speaker 1 (00:01):
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read every story you
(00:22):
hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
If you love these stories, there is a whole world
waiting for you in my book, also called Nothing Much Happens.
See the Busy Bakery on a Saturday morning, make the
(00:45):
sandwiches we eat at the allotment, and read sixteen news
stories that will never be on the podcast. It's available
all over the world, and you can learn more at
Nothing Much Happens dot com. Let me say something about
how to use this podcast. I'm going to tell you
(01:09):
a story to help you relax and drop off into sleep.
I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little bit
slower the second time through. The story is like a
landing pad for your mind, a soft place for it
to rest. If you find yourself still awake at the
(01:34):
end of the first or the second telling, don't worry.
That's a good rule of thumb in general. When you're
trying to fall asleep, don't worry, relax, take your mind
back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself
through the details that you remember, especially any bit that
(01:58):
felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to
wind down, and the more often you do it, the
faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of
patience at the beginning. Now it's time to turn off
the light, put away whatever you were working on or
(02:22):
playing with, and snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable
position you can find. You might have an ideal sleep
position that's tried and true, get into it. All of
this helps to signal to your brain that it's time
(02:45):
to close up shop. Let's take a slow breath in
through the nose, the soft sigh out of the mouth.
One more like that, in and out. Good. Our story
(03:14):
tonight is called A Block from Home, and it's a
story about the feeling of coming home after a long
day and finding a quiet place to rest. It's also
about the feeling of being on your own time and
having the space to do something or to do nothing
(03:36):
at all. A block from Home it had been raining
since the night before, when there were puddles in the street.
The sky was gray and low. It was a September afternoon,
(03:59):
and it was cool and with a breeze that smelled
like autumn. I'd stopped to block away from my house
under the yawning of a green grocer, and pulled the
collar of my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek.
(04:21):
The smell of pears made me turn my head away
from the window of the coffee shop on the next corner,
where I had been watching a few people sipping from
cups and reading newspapers or talking with friends. The pears
(04:41):
were small and green, but a little soft, with a
bruise or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
(05:03):
After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
I drew my hood back up over my head and
crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the
(05:26):
same building, really, just repeated over and over, and with
a few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards, some
had gardens and gates, and some had old trees growing
up through the cracked pavements. All of them had wide
(05:52):
steps and stoops, though no one was sitting out on
them on a day like to day. Mine had a tall,
wrought iron gate and fence that closed off my slightly
overgrown garden from the street. I stopped at the gate
(06:15):
and looked for a moment up and down the street.
There were a few others making their way through the
rain with heads down or tucked into umbrellas. My gate
has just one key, and it was in the house.
(06:38):
That was how I liked it. I didn't need a key.
I reached up for the heavy gate handle. I let
my thumb brush across a tiny print reader that was
programmed only to my thumb print. No one could follow
(07:00):
me in here. It took less than a second. I
heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and pulled
the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and I
hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
(07:25):
I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
in much the same way as my gate, but required
a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
(07:49):
I sighed, I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
the door behind me. At the end of the day,
knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
(08:10):
the night. Turning back to the door, I smiled at
the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
turn them one at a time, just the same, twisting
(08:37):
the dead bolts, sliding the chain, fastening the latch. Take
that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
window now, and I only looked out at the storm
(09:02):
as it had now become a proper storm for a
moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
(09:23):
just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
(09:47):
pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd be
a before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
(10:10):
couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
set here and there, but I left them off. The
string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
bookshelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds on
(10:34):
a table beside the sofa and lay down. I looked
out at the books for a few minutes, with a
few snow globes and mementos tucked in. The kettle was
making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder were
(10:58):
muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I heard
the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment of
stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed on
(11:19):
my knees. I twisted on to my side and she
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept a block
(11:51):
from home. It had been raining since the night before,
and there were puddles in the street. The sky was
gray and low. It was a September afternoon, and it
(12:14):
was cool, with a breeze that smelled like autumn. I
had stopped a block away from my house under the
awning of a green grocer. Un pulled the collar of
(12:35):
my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek. The smell
of pears made me turn my head away from the
window of the coffee shop on the next corner, where
(12:58):
I had been watching a people sipping from cups and
reading newspapers were talking with friends. The pears were small
and green, but a little soft, and with a bruise
(13:18):
or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
(13:41):
After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
I drew my hood back up over my head and
crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
(14:03):
brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the
same building, really, repeated over and over, and with a
few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards, some had
(14:31):
gardens and gates, and some had old trees growing up
through the cracked pavements. All of them had wide steps
and stoops, though no one was sitting out on them
(14:53):
on a day like today. Mine had a tall, wrought
iron gate and fence that closed off my slightly overgrown
garden from the street. I stopped at the gate and
(15:16):
looked for a moment. Up and down the street, there
were a few others making their way through the rain
with heads down or tucked into umbrellas. My gate has
(15:42):
just one key, and it was in the house. That
was how I liked it. I didn't need a key.
I reached up for the heavy gate handle and let
(16:06):
my thumb brush across a tiny print reader that was
programmed only to my thumb print. No one could follow
me in here. It took less than a second. I
(16:32):
heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and pulled
the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and I
hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
(17:00):
I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
in much the same way as my gait, but required
a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
(17:21):
around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
I sighed. I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
(17:46):
the door behind me at the end of the day,
knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
the night. Turning back to the door, I smile at
(18:07):
the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
turn them one at a time, just the same, twisting
(18:32):
the dead bolt, sliding the chain, fastening the latch. Take
that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
(18:54):
window now, and I only looked out at the storm
as it had now become a proper storm for a
moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
(19:22):
feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
(19:46):
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
my way to the library, passing through the kitchen, and
I pressed the button on the electric kettle with half
an idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd
(20:12):
be asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep
sofa that was long enough to stretch out on, and
a couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading
(20:34):
lamps set here and there, but I left them off.
The string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of
the bookshelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds
(20:54):
on a table beside the sofa and lay down. I
looked out at the books for a few moments, with
a few snow globes and mementos tucked in. The kettle
(21:17):
was making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder
were muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I
heard the soft pad of kitty paws and a moment
of stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed
(21:43):
on my knees. I twisted unto my side and she
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
(22:06):
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept sweet dreams.
Welcome to bedtime stories for grown ups in which nothing
much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep.
I'm Catherine Nikolay. I write and read every story you
(00:22):
hear on Nothing Much Happens Audio Engineering is by Bob Wittersheim.
If you love these stories, there is a whole world
waiting for you in my book, also called Nothing Much Happens.
See the Busy Bakery on a Saturday morning, make the
(00:45):
sandwiches we eat at the allotment, and read sixteen news
stories that will never be on the podcast. It's available
all over the world, and you can learn more at
Nothing Much Happens dot com. Let me say something about
how to use this podcast. I'm going to tell you
(01:09):
a story to help you relax and drop off into sleep.
I'll tell it twice, and I'll go a little bit
slower the second time through. The story is like a
landing pad for your mind, a soft place for it
to rest. If you find yourself still awake at the
(01:34):
end of the first or the second telling, don't worry.
That's a good rule of thumb in general. When you're
trying to fall asleep, don't worry, relax, take your mind
back to the beginning of the story and walk yourself
through the details that you remember, especially any bit that
(01:58):
felt particularly cozy. You're training your brain and body to
wind down, and the more often you do it, the
faster you will fall asleep. So have a bit of
patience at the beginning. Now it's time to turn off
the light, put away whatever you were working on or
(02:22):
playing with, and snuggle yourself down into the most comfortable
position you can find. You might have an ideal sleep
position that's tried and true, get into it. All of
this helps to signal to your brain that it's time
(02:45):
to close up shop. Let's take a slow breath in
through the nose, the soft sigh out of the mouth.
One more like that, in and out. Good. Our story
(03:14):
tonight is called A Block from Home, and it's a
story about the feeling of coming home after a long
day and finding a quiet place to rest. It's also
about the feeling of being on your own time and
having the space to do something or to do nothing
(03:36):
at all. A block from Home it had been raining
since the night before, when there were puddles in the street.
The sky was gray and low. It was a September afternoon,
(03:59):
and it was cool and with a breeze that smelled
like autumn. I'd stopped to block away from my house
under the yawning of a green grocer, and pulled the
collar of my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek.
(04:21):
The smell of pears made me turn my head away
from the window of the coffee shop on the next corner,
where I had been watching a few people sipping from
cups and reading newspapers or talking with friends. The pears
(04:41):
were small and green, but a little soft, with a
bruise or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
(05:03):
After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
I drew my hood back up over my head and
crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the
(05:26):
same building, really, just repeated over and over, and with
a few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards, some
had gardens and gates, and some had old trees growing
up through the cracked pavements. All of them had wide
(05:52):
steps and stoops, though no one was sitting out on
them on a day like to day. Mine had a tall,
wrought iron gate and fence that closed off my slightly
overgrown garden from the street. I stopped at the gate
(06:15):
and looked for a moment up and down the street.
There were a few others making their way through the
rain with heads down or tucked into umbrellas. My gate
has just one key, and it was in the house.
(06:38):
That was how I liked it. I didn't need a key.
I reached up for the heavy gate handle. I let
my thumb brush across a tiny print reader that was
programmed only to my thumb print. No one could follow
(07:00):
me in here. It took less than a second. I
heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and pulled
the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and I
hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
(07:25):
I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
in much the same way as my gate, but required
a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
(07:49):
I sighed, I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
the door behind me. At the end of the day,
knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
(08:10):
the night. Turning back to the door, I smiled at
the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
turn them one at a time, just the same, twisting
(08:37):
the dead bolts, sliding the chain, fastening the latch. Take
that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
window now, and I only looked out at the storm
(09:02):
as it had now become a proper storm for a
moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
(09:23):
just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
my way to the library. Passing through the kitchen, I
(09:47):
pressed the button on the electric kettle with half an
idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd be
a before it boiled. The library had a deep sofa
that was long enough to stretch out on, and a
(10:10):
couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading lamps
set here and there, but I left them off. The
string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of the
bookshelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds on
(10:34):
a table beside the sofa and lay down. I looked
out at the books for a few minutes, with a
few snow globes and mementos tucked in. The kettle was
making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder were
(10:58):
muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I heard
the soft pad of kitty paws, then a moment of
stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed on
(11:19):
my knees. I twisted on to my side and she
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept a block
(11:51):
from home. It had been raining since the night before,
and there were puddles in the street. The sky was
gray and low. It was a September afternoon, and it
(12:14):
was cool, with a breeze that smelled like autumn. I
had stopped a block away from my house under the
awning of a green grocer. Un pulled the collar of
(12:35):
my raincoat a bit higher against my cheek. The smell
of pears made me turn my head away from the
window of the coffee shop on the next corner, where
(12:58):
I had been watching a people sipping from cups and
reading newspapers were talking with friends. The pears were small
and green, but a little soft, and with a bruise
(13:18):
or two that showed they were ready to be eaten.
I asked for two, and also for some almonds that
the grocer twisted into a piece of brown paper for me.
(13:41):
After I tucked my treats into the pocket of my raincoat,
I drew my hood back up over my head and
crossed the street. I was almost home. The row of
(14:03):
brown stones stood shoulder to shoulder. They were all the
same building, really, repeated over and over, and with a
few differences in the facades. Some had courtyards, some had
(14:31):
gardens and gates, and some had old trees growing up
through the cracked pavements. All of them had wide steps
and stoops, though no one was sitting out on them
(14:53):
on a day like today. Mine had a tall, wrought
iron gate and fence that closed off my slightly overgrown
garden from the street. I stopped at the gate and
(15:16):
looked for a moment. Up and down the street, there
were a few others making their way through the rain
with heads down or tucked into umbrellas. My gate has
(15:42):
just one key, and it was in the house. That
was how I liked it. I didn't need a key.
I reached up for the heavy gate handle and let
(16:06):
my thumb brush across a tiny print reader that was
programmed only to my thumb print. No one could follow
me in here. It took less than a second. I
(16:32):
heard a tiny click in the lock mechanism and pulled
the gate open. It locked smoothly behind me, and I
hurried through the garden and up to my front door.
(17:00):
I'd had enough of the rain. My front door worked
in much the same way as my gait, but required
a full palm print to open. I wrapped my hand
(17:21):
around the knob and it unlocked, and I stepped in.
I sighed. I had always enjoyed the feeling of closing
(17:46):
the door behind me at the end of the day,
knowing I didn't need to leave the house again for
the night. Turning back to the door, I smile at
(18:07):
the row of locks. They were a metaphor. The door
was secure and didn't need them, but I liked to
turn them one at a time, just the same, twisting
(18:32):
the dead bolt, sliding the chain, fastening the latch. Take
that world, I said. The rain was drumming against the
(18:54):
window now, and I only looked out at the storm
as it had now become a proper storm for a
moment before pulling the thick velvet curtain across. I could
(19:22):
feel my body becoming heavier with each step. I was
just a few minutes away from dropping into a sweet,
long nap, and I knew it. I kicked off my
(19:46):
boots and hung my raincoat on the coat rack on
my way to the library, passing through the kitchen, and
I pressed the button on the electric kettle with half
an idea of having a cup of tea. Likely i'd
(20:12):
be asleep before it boiled. The library had a deep
sofa that was long enough to stretch out on, and
a couple of throws and pillows. There were proper reading
(20:34):
lamps set here and there, but I left them off.
The string of fairy lights glowing around the tops of
the bookshelves was perfect. I set my pears and almonds
(20:54):
on a table beside the sofa and lay down. I
looked out at the books for a few moments, with
a few snow globes and mementos tucked in. The kettle
(21:17):
was making a soft sound, and the rain and thunder
were muffled and far away. My eyes were closing. I
heard the soft pad of kitty paws and a moment
of stillness as she prepared to jump, and she landed
(21:43):
on my knees. I twisted unto my side and she
slid into the space behind my legs. I pulled a
blanket up over us, laid my face on a soft
(22:06):
old pillow, and closed my eyes. We slept sweet dreams.
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