A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when the weather has kept you inside — for winding down

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Your ankles can go loose now.

Let your forearms get heavy and warm. Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Notice if you're waiting for something to happen. Nothing is scheduled. Notice any tension that arrived while you weren't looking.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

Nothing needs deciding tonight. Sleep.

Just the dark. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself. Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet.

Let the breath be the only thing you are doing. Almost nothing to do now. Just the breath.

Bad weather is a decent excuse to stay in and do this.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.