A caravan by the sea (a sleep story), when you have been on screens all day — for winding down

Everything you need is within two metres of where you are lying. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second. There is a gas ring, a kettle, and two cups, one of which is a different pattern.

The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor. The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts. The caravan rocks very slightly in the wind, which is more comforting than it sounds.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

You can hear the shingle moving as the waves pull back. The sea is about fifty metres away, over a bank of shingle.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your wrists loosen.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your forearms get heavy and warm.

The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor. There is a torch by the door in case you need to walk to the toilets in the night.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

The whole caravan smells of salt, gas and clean bedding. The window over the sink has a small crack in the corner that has been there for years.

Your chest can be still now. Your ankles can go loose now.

The bed folds out of the seating area and takes up most of the floor. The curtains are thin, and the moon makes a pale rectangle on the floor.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The wind pushes against the side of the caravan in long, slow gusts. A clock on the wall ticks with a slight rattle on every second.

Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again. If you feel emotional, you don't have to explain it to anyone, including yourself.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the mattress take all of it.

Just the dark. Let the next part go past without you.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

Slower. Just the breath. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

After a day of screens, the eyes and the shoulders need this first.

That is the end of the story. Sleep is the next part, and it does not need instructions.