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Welcome to get Sleepy, where we listen, we relax, and we get sleepy. As always, I'm your host Thomas. Thanks for tuning in. I'll be reading to you tonight and I want to thank Lottie for writing this lovely tale set in one of England's most vibrant and historic cities, Brighton. Soon we'll be off to the seaside in the southeast of the country where our story takes place on a rainy day, which is all part of the cozy charm. Before we get to our story, a quick reminder that you can enjoy listening to Get Sleepy completely ad free by becoming a Get Sleepy Premium member. Not only will you be supporting the show, but you'll get lots of amazing perks in return. Along with ad free listening, our Premium members can enjoy the entire catalogue of stories which is now closing in on 1,000 episodes. Plus every single Thursday we release a brand new Premium exclusive episode. Tomorrow night Chloe will be reading us a Greek myth about how the seasons came to be, so be sure to join us there tomorrow night. New members get a seven day free trial to begin with and you can cancel anytime. For more information and to sign up to Get Sleepy Premium, go to getSleepy.com support and don't forget, you can also gift a subscription to Get Sleepy Premium. With the festive season upon us, it's the perfect way to show loved ones and friends how much you care by offering them the gift of good sleep. You'll find the option to gift a subscription at that same link getsleepy.com support. Now my friends, let's prepare for our story by taking some time to make ourselves comfortable and slow down our minds. If you need to make any adjustments to your sleeping position or to your bedding and pillows, feel free to do so. Find a place of stillness that feels just right. Now, if you're at all like me, you might find that coming to bed and switching off the light tends to be the moment when a lot of thoughts suddenly emerge and present themselves. It could be reminders and to do lists, moments from the day just gone, maybe longer term memories or concerns about the future. Over the years of hosting Get Sleepy, I've offered a number of suggestions on ways to deal with this, but I have a new one tonight that I've not covered before, and it was actually brought to my attention on social media by one of our lovely listeners. The broad premise is that our minds, like organization, they're always processing the world around us and the way we live within it. The mind is a bit like a filing cabinet full of all sorts of papers, each representing a thought, a reminder, or a memory. So as you notice any thoughts coming to the forefront of your attention, you can consciously organize them into three different folders. The folders are labelled Done, Tomorrow and Someday. If and when a thought comes to mind, try filing it into the relevant folder. Done or Tomorrow or Someday. Your brain knows how to organize your thoughts and as you file each of them in this simple way, I hope that gradually you'll feel less burdened, more relaxed, and ready to switch off and sleep. So as you continue to clear and organize any mind noise, we can turn to our story. An autumnal day in Brighton awaits. So let's begin. You are standing On a smooth pavement at the top of a steep hill behind you is Brighton train station. It's an old building with twirly wrought iron railings and two pointed glass roofs that make it look a little like a greenhouse. It's late morning, but there is a slight chill in the air. The fresh, earthy scent of a recent rainfall fills your nose and dances over your taste buds. You breathe in a deep, satisfying breath and gaze up at the sky. It is a patchwork of milky white and pale grey clouds. The road before you slopes down the hill. It's not busy today. Only a few people traipse up and down. You notice the modern shops, bakeries, cafes and market stores that line the road. In the distance, partly hidden by the old fashioned hotels and office buildings, you spot the sea. Today it is steely grey, no doubt a reflection of the clouds above it, and it blends into the sky like a watercolor painting. You take in this scene, feeling a sense of calm and freshness. Then you notice a cobbled path veering to the left and winding down the side of the hill. The round cobblestones are highly polished from hundreds of years of footfall. You can see brick walls on either side and catch glimpses of old houses. This is the way to the Lanes, the historic area of Brighton, and you decide that it's the right direction to walk. You head towards the cobbled path, delighting in the feeling of the bumpy surface underfoot. Your shoes clack against the cobbles and you are filled with a simple sense of joy. Just then you notice the scent of coffee. The door of a tiny cafe is open and the smell of freshly extracted espresso is wafting outside. You breathe it in gratefully and look at the cafe. The building is old in Georgian style. It's barely 12ft wide and has a big glass window with gold lettering. The door and window frames have been painted in a glossy, deep emerald green. Perhaps if the cafe were not so busy, you would pop inside, but instead you find yourself content to carry on down the hill. New smells greet you. Firstly, the scent of shoe polish from the cobblers. Then the buttery smell of croissants. Followed by a rich, warm, savory smell of breakfast. And finally, the salty tang of sea air that you only just realize is there. The cobblestones lead you all the way down to the bottom of the hill, where the path branches off into several little lanes. They are all lined with the same historic houses that have become shops and places to eat. You continue along the lanes, noticing that the Streets are still wet from the morning rain. On the way, you pass more cafes, vintage clothing shops, hairdressers, an ice cream parlour and even a quirky little pet shop. Each place has its own unique charm, painted in different pastel colours and adorned with hanging baskets of flower flowers or rosemary shrubs. You take a moment to feel the history of this place, the thousands of feet that must have walked where you are now, and the lives that were lived here. Perhaps in the past, the shops and the cafes were homes. Maybe they had greengrocers and fishmongers instead of clothes shops. There is a comforting feeling to the richness of time and memories that still linger here. Continuing through the lanes, you notice a particularly large shop. Its windows are crammed with all kinds of things. Smiling, you slip inside the open door of the antique shop. The air is musty in a nice way. You breathe it in, smelling the scent of old paper and wax candles. Piled in the corners are mountains of books. You also spot several gramophones and crates of vinyl records. Umbrellas and horse riding boots dangle from the ceiling. The shop seems like a maze of objects with narrow little walkways branching off in different directions. You choose a path and begin to wander through. The piles of old objects intrigue you. How fascinating it is to see items that once belonged to someone else. Some may have been used every day, but others may have been prized possessions used only for special events. You breathe in, becoming aware of the warmth inside the shop. The carpet feels soft underfoot and the lights have a warm, cozy glow to them. Then you notice that the sounds of the street outside are muffled. It's like you have become cocooned in the magic of old memories. As strange as it sounds, it almost feels as if the shop can sense your mood. Your eyes settle on a small cardboard box perched on top of an oak cabinet. Stacked inside the box are piles of black and white photographs. You pick them up and begin to flick through. There is picture after picture of smiling faces. People on holiday in Brighton. The ladies smile, their hair curled and bouncy. They wear 1950s style swimsuits and red lipstick. The men have smartly combed hair and relaxed, happy expressions. You stand for a while taking in these sweet memories of strangers, until you come to the last photograph. You gently place them back. From the front of the shop, you hear the tinkle of the bell. The sound brings you out of your reverie. Perhaps it is time to leave and seek the same beach as the 1950s holidaymakers. You turn around and begin to find your way out through the maze of antique objects. Stepping back out onto the street, you feel a change in the weather. The clouds seem heavier and the wind has a chill, but it's an atmosphere that you enjoy breathing in the air. You continue down the lanes towards the sea. The cobbled streets begin to widen and the houses become more modern, until finally you find yourself at an ordinary road with traffic lights. Right ahead of you is the beach and stretching out into the steely sea is the iconic Brighton Pier. You pause for a moment to take in this scene. You can hear the rhythmic sound of waves breaking onto the pebbled beach and then dragging themselves back into the water. The clatter of the stones washing over each other. Other rings out even against the squawking of seagulls and the whistle of the wind. Behind it all. Rising up out of the sea is the pier, featuring an impressive cream coloured structure with a great dome. This is the famous Brighton Arcade. It's perched on metal stilts at the end of the pier's walkway which extends into the sea. Wasting no time, you stroll towards the pier, curious to experience it for yourself. After crossing the road, you step onto the walkway. The pier's floor is made of wooden planks, each with a small gap between them. You pad along the planks out over the sea and towards the the cream coloured building beneath your feet. You see the pebbled beach merging with the water. The waves undulate below you and you watch them for a moment, transfixed by their movement. The water is dark grey, reflecting the sky above. You look up to the horizon and see the seagulls gliding in the air. As you walk along the pier, you pass food vendors and souvenir shops. The tang of vinegar hits your nose along with the tempting smell of fried food. Looking around, you see a man scooping chunky chips into a paper bag. While the customer waits patiently, You walk on, happy to feel the sea breeze fluttering your clothes and the slight ocean spray on your skin. The domed building is closer now and you can see that it houses an old fashioned penny arcade. Smiling, you slip inside. There aren't many people, but there are many different machines. You can hear the steady clunk of pennies being shuffled and shifted. You make your way over to one of the machines. A moving shelf of two pence pieces is being pushed backwards and forwards towards a precarious pile of more copper coins. Each time the shelf moves forward, forward, the coins inch ever closer to falling down the collection chute. You place your hands into your pockets, feeling for any two pence coins and find one. It's cool against your fingers and you can feel the embossed design. You take the coin out of your pocket and slip it into the slot at the top of the machine. It falls with a satisfying clunk only to be caught in a special kind of penny rail. You watch it roll down its own little roller coaster until it joins the shelf of two pence pieces with a clink. But it's no use. Your coin doesn't make a difference to the pile that seems so sure to cascade towards you at any minute. You smile and wonder if the people from the vintage photographs played this game too once upon a time. Content to carry on, you move through the arcade, taking in all the different games and allowing your feet to simply carry you wherever they want to. When you've had enough, you walk back out of the domed building and onto the pier again. The sky is deep grey now and the wind has started to become cold. Surely it will rain. 6. You decide to make your way back along the pier once again watching the sea churn below your feet. The seagulls are still soaring and squawking and you can feel the cold wind whipping over your hands and face. Just before you reach the end of the pier you glance up and notice a tiny, cozy looking coffee shop. It's right ahead, all lit up with orange coloured lights and you can see a few comfy sofas to sit on. You redirect yourself towards it, looking forward to stepping inside. When you reach the coffee shop you place your hand on the doorknob. Taking a breath in, you open the door, step inside and feel the inviting warmth that you imagined on the pier. You inhale deeply. The air is full of the scent of coffee, tea and toast. Smiling, you look at the blackboard behind the counter to decide what to have. A kind lady takes your order and offers you a seat. You sink into a brown leather armchair right by the window. Outside, people are hurrying along, wrapping themselves tighter in their coats. The wind must be picking up. Sure enough, the sky is looking stormier than ever and the sea has turned an even deeper shade of grey. But you feel only contentedness as you relax into your armchair and begin to People watch. The waitress brings you a cup of tea and a ginger biscuit, all balanced on a kitsch little tray patterned with cherries. She places them down in front of you and you begin to add just the right amount of milk and sugar. Sipping at your tea and nibbling at your biscuit. You continue gazing out at the sea. The warming taste of ginger and cinnamon is in your mouth and you can feel the heat of the tea penetrating into the ceramic of the mug. There isn't much to do other than enjoy this simple pleasure. After some time, you realize that the tea is finished and it might be time to go. You reach into your pocket and take out a small piece of paper with an address and instructions. This is where you are staying for the night. Once you're ready, you slowly leave the coffee shop. The sky is heavy with the promise of rain and the wind is wild and free. Happily, you wrap your coat around you and make your way down the seaside lanes. Somewhere out to sea, THUNDER RUMBLES as you walk, you catch sight of the pub sign mentioned in your instructions. A small olive green door stands next to it, just a few meters away. You head directly for it just as the first drop of rain falls onto your skin. You're soon peppered in tiny droplets of water. Reaching the door, you push it open. It leads you to a hall with black and white floor tiles. You climb the winding staircase until you reach flat number five. Checking your piece of paper, you lift up the plant pot beside the door. Underneath it is a key. You pick it up and slip it into the keyhole, unlocking the door with a satisfying clunk. Then you step inside the neat, cosy little apartment. It has brick walls and a fabulous squashy sofa that sits in front of a huge bay window with a panoramic view of the sea. Letting the door close behind you, you head to the sofa and settle down. The rain begins to lash down, hitting the window and running down the glass. The space between the sea and the sky is hazy, filled with the mist of raindrops. You can hear the water pounding on the roof. You take a deep, contented breath. There is a soft, fuzzy blanket draped over one arm of the sofa. Instinctively, you reach out for it and pull it over you. You let yourself curl up and sink into the sofa. The cushions are so comfortable. The temperature of the room is just right. And something about the sound of the rain brings you great peace. Peace. As you lie there, cocooned in your blanket, you begin to feel tired. It's been a wonderful day of walking and sightseeing. The rain is so soothing and your body is so comfortable and warm, You can feel your eyelids getting heavier and heavier. Your breathing becomes soft and slow. Before you know it, your eyes close and you surrender. There on the sofa, you drift into the deepest, most restorative sleep, where you dream of rainy weather and days gone by in the old town of Brighton.