The Most Boring Man In The World: A Rainy Sleep Story

Hello,

My friend.

Welcome to your sleep story.

My name is Stephen Dalton.

I'm an Irish storyteller,

And it's my great privilege to be the voice that you listen to as you go to sleep tonight.

Often,

Sometimes the mundane,

The boring,

If you will,

Is the best type of thing to listen to as we go to sleep.

And so,

I came up with an idea to write a story where very little happens in a very boring person's life,

Possibly the most boring man in the world.

Welcome to a new series.

I'd like for you to comment if you can and tell me what you think of it.

Even one word will do.

Or tell me where you are in the world and what time it is while you're listening.

Okay,

Let's do the relaxation session now,

Which will take a few minutes before tonight's sleep story.

I'm going to count down from ten to one,

And as I do,

Allow yourself to let go more and more.

Ten.

Feel the support of the bed beneath you,

Or the floor,

Or whatever you lie upon tonight.

And as you become aware of that support,

See if you can become aware of a deeper support,

A constant support.

The support of the earth,

Our home,

Beneath everything.

And allow that awareness to enable you to let go,

To release.

To begin to say goodbye to the day.

And if your eyes aren't closed yet,

Maybe now is a good time to allow them to close.

You are safe.

Allow my voice to be a friend tonight,

To be a guide of kindness,

A guide that you can trust,

To only ever bring you to safe places in this story or another one.

And becoming aware more and more now of that feeling of safety,

See if it enables you.

The day is done.

Whatever has been,

Has been.

Whatever will be,

Will be.

You are probably still having thoughts in your mind.

And instead of following them,

See if you can just observe them and watch them go.

Don't fight them.

Watch them float away like leaves on a moonlit river,

Or clouds passing by through a starlit sky.

7.

This is your time.

You deserve this time.

Allow yourself to luxuriate in that fact.

Allow yourself to settle into this time now.

Know that you deserve rest.

We all do.

And become aware of your body,

Where you might be holding tension.

Maybe it's in your feet.

Maybe it's in your lower legs.

Maybe it's in your belly,

Or your hands.

Or maybe you're like me,

And you hold the tension in your face.

Just let it all go now.

6.

Peace lives within you.

I promise you it does.

And you can find it tonight.

Just begin to let go now,

And see can you find that peace within you.

It is there,

Waiting to be seen.

Waiting to be heard.

Waiting to be felt.

5.

As you move closer and closer towards deep rest,

Know that you have nothing to carry right now.

Nowhere to go.

Nothing to do.

And allow that fact to bring about more rest within you.

4.

Perhaps allow a little gratitude now.

Gratitude for the simple things.

For the shelter you have tonight.

For the breath in your body.

For the ones you love.

3.

Begin to engage with your imagination now.

Begin to see a very regular looking house,

In a very regular looking street,

On a rainy day.

And a very regular looking man,

Sitting in his very regular looking house.

You are about to visit a man who does very little with his time,

And is more than content with that fact.

2.

Checking in with your body one more time now.

Your body has worked hard for you today.

It's time to give it rest.

3.

Completely letting go now.

As I tell you tonight's sleep story.

It is another boring day,

In the very boring life of possibly,

No,

Definitely,

The most boring man in the world.

Now this is not passing judgement.

I don't do that dear listener.

But he would tell you himself,

That his life was incredibly boring.

That's not to say he wasn't happy,

Or that he didn't have a nice time.

But,

Boring would be the best adjective,

To describe a day in this boring man's life.

I would tell you his name,

But it's just too boring.

I would tell you what he had for breakfast,

But it's quite boring really.

But what I will tell you is,

He ate it in exactly 6 minutes and 24 seconds,

As he did every morning.

Sitting at the same end of the kitchen table,

With his back to the window,

And his front to a beige wall.

The wallpaper had once had a pattern,

But he had painted over it years ago,

Because he found the pattern a bit exciting.

His spoon made the same noise it always did against the bowl.

Clink,

Clink,

Scrape,

Clink,

And then he rinsed it under the tap.

With such minimal enthusiasm,

It could barely be called rinsing at all.

He then placed it on the draining board,

And in precisely the same spot he placed it every day,

Which had now developed a faint spoon-shaped dent,

As if the countertop itself had grown tired of the routine.

Outside,

The rain came down at a medium pace,

Neither heavy nor light,

Just somewhere solidly in the middle.

The kind of rain that makes you sigh,

Not from sadness,

But from the long,

Grey stretch of it.

He did not look at it.

He did not think anything about it.

He had long since accepted rain as something that happened,

And should therefore be tolerated in silence.

The most boring man in the world had a job,

Of course.

One that involved spreadsheets,

Paperclips,

And a chair that squeaked only once,

At precisely 11.

43am,

And never any other time.

But today was his day off,

Which meant he would remain in the house,

Doing nothing unexpected,

Nothing unusual,

And certainly nothing that might cause even a flicker of interest in a passerby.

At 9.

01am,

Which was one minute behind schedule due to a slightly overfilled kettle,

He walked into his living room,

Sat in the brown chair,

Not the green one,

Which he considered a bit too lively,

And stared at the blank television screen,

Which he would turn on in exactly 14 minutes.

Not to watch anything,

But to listen to the low murmur of the news,

While doing a jigsaw puzzle.

Of a beige stone wall.

He didn't really like jigsaw puzzles,

But he also didn't dislike them.

That was the ideal sort of activity,

Really.

Something that neither stirred nor stilled,

That passed the time without engaging with it.

The puzzle pieces were all shades of grey and greyer,

And a small note on the box had promised,

No distinguishable features.

This was exactly what had drawn him to it.

The corner pieces went in first,

Of course.

He had placed them in their traditional positions months ago,

And hadn't moved them since.

At 9.

25am,

The television flickered onto its usual volume.

Level 9.

Not 10.

Never 10.

A presenter with a bright voice announced something about weather,

Or waffles.

He couldn't really tell,

As he wasn't listening,

Only hearing.

He liked the shape the voices made in the air,

Like furniture in a familiar room.

By 9.

36am,

He was pouring himself his second cup of tea,

Using the same mug he always used on a Thursday.

Even though it was Wednesday.

This was a mild disruption,

But not enough to cause alarm.

He stood for a moment in the kitchen,

Mug in hand,

Staring out at the rain.

The rain stared back.

It had no interest in stopping,

And he had no interest in urging it to.

He returned to the brown chair and resumed puzzling.

A particularly puzzling piece refused to fit.

He turned it clockwise,

Then anticlockwise,

Then back again.

He held it up to the light,

As if it might confess something.

It did not.

Eventually,

He placed it gently back on the table,

And selected a different,

Equally unremarkable piece.

Which fit on the first try,

Though he did not celebrate.

At 10.

03am,

The telephone rang.

Now this was unexpected.

The phone almost never rang,

Unless it was a wrong number.

Or a very boring survey about bin collection.

He looked at it.

Rang again.

The man regarded it the way someone might regard a dog that has learned to whistle.

Not with fear,

Or fascination,

But with mild,

Plodding disbelief.

He considered not answering.

But then again,

He always answered on the third ring.

And so,

On the third ring,

He lifted the receiver and said,

As he always did,

Yes?

The voice on the line was thin,

And slightly damp,

Like someone had left it out in the rain,

And then brought it back in again.

Hello,

Sir.

I'm calling from the council about your bins,

It said.

This was a satisfactory reason to be called,

And he nodded.

Even though the voice couldn't see him.

The council had called before,

Once in 2017,

And again in 2020.

Both times to ask how satisfied he was with the spacing of the bins.

He had said,

Very,

On both occasions.

As the voice droned on,

Something about adjusted collection schedules,

And a new leaflet.

He looked down at his feet.

Mostly out of boredom.

Now his slippers were the same as always,

Grey,

With the small embroidered R and L on the tops,

Which helped avoid excitement.

But something wasn't quite right.

His left foot looked stiff,

Or perhaps his right foot had grown.

He tilted his head.

No,

Definitely different.

One slipper appeared puffier,

More confident.

The other,

More apologetic,

Almost shy.

He gently flexed his toes,

Trying to assess the situation without fully acknowledging it.

Could a foot change size without telling you?

He wasn't sure.

He hadn't checked his feet in a long time.

They had always just been there,

Like the wallpaper,

Or gravity.

The voice from the council asked if he was satisfied with the new bin diagram.

Yes,

He replied automatically,

Still staring at his mismatched extremities.

Perhaps it was the slippers.

Yes,

Maybe one had shrunk in the wash,

Or the other had swollen with pride.

Or maybe it was his socks.

He'd accidentally worn two different types once before,

And hadn't noticed until February.

He made a mental note to investigate further,

Possibly after tea,

Or next Tuesday.

The voice on the line thanked him,

And said something about a follow-up survey.

He agreed to it.

He always agreed to follow-up surveys.

He put the phone down gently,

Returned his gaze to his feet,

And decided to swap the slippers,

Just to see.

He did.

The result was even more disconcerting.

Now,

The other foot looked wrong.

He stared at them for some time,

Waiting for something to feel normal again.

He kept the slippers on the wrong feet for a bit,

Just to see what would happen.

Nothing did.

It was neither better nor worse,

Just different in a way that wasn't worth commenting on,

Even to himself.

Eventually,

He gave up trying to feel anything about it,

And returned them to their proper orientation,

With the slow reverence of a man aligning coasters on a coffee table no one will ever use.

He stood and walked to the window,

Not out of curiosity,

But because it was something to do.

The window overlooked a street that had once been described in a local newspaper as adequate.

There were bins,

Of course,

And cars that hadn't moved in a while,

And a tree that seemed to have given up on the idea of branching out.

A cat walked past with the air of someone late for nothing.

He admired its efficiency.

The rain continued exactly as before.

It did not intensify or ease,

Which was reassuring.

The glass misted slightly from his breath,

So he wiped a small circle clear with the sleeve of his cardigan.

Not because he needed to see more,

But because it felt like the sort of thing someone might do in a film,

Just without any music.

After a while,

He began mentally listing all the things that had happened outside his window over the years.

Once,

A van had reversed too confidently and knocked into one of the lampposts.

Another time,

A man had dropped an umbrella,

Retrieved it,

And carried on.

Last December,

Someone had walked past wearing shorts in winter.

That one had stayed with him.

He kept looking.

There was nothing new.

But sometimes,

If you stared long enough,

Things seemed to happen,

Even when they didn't.

A leaf moved slightly,

But only because of the wind.

A car door opened,

Then closed again.

Possibly someone had gotten in.

Possibly not.

He blinked slowly and thought to himself,

That's enough of that for now.

He stepped away from the window and returned to the kitchen,

Where the kettle was sitting exactly where he had left it,

Which was both expected and faintly reassuring.

He filled it again,

Not because he needed more tea,

But because the sound of boiling water gave the illusion that something was happening.

While it rumbled,

He looked at the calendar on the wall.

The date was circled.

He couldn't remember why.

He stared at the circled date for a while,

Then longer.

Dentist?

No,

He went to the dentist in June.

Or was it July?

He wasn't entirely sure.

The kettle clicked off,

But he didn't move.

The circle stared back at him.

Not sure why,

He thought.

Why is it circled?

Eventually,

He poured the tea,

Stirring it with the same spoon he'd used earlier.

He took the cup to the brown chair,

But didn't sit right away.

He stood beside it,

Cradling the mug in both hands,

Looking down at the cushion as if seeing it properly for the first time.

It had a faint dent in the shape of his bottom.

That made sense,

But still,

He stared at it.

He sat,

But slightly off to one side of the dent,

Just enough that it felt different.

Not dramatically so.

He wasn't a reckless man,

But just enough.

He sipped his tea.

It tasted exactly like every cup he'd ever made,

But the slight shift in sitting position gave it the tiniest sense of occasion.

He glanced at the cushion again,

Quietly aware that he might just have broken a personal pattern.

The rain tapped on the windows,

Gentle and repetitive.

The television muttered on in the background.

Something had changed,

Almost imperceptibly,

But it was there.

He shifted again in the seat,

Just a little.

Then again,

Then settled.

He finished his tea,

Slowly,

As always,

But instead of placing the mug on the small table next to the brown chair,

The one with the ring mark from 2012,

He carried it with him.

It wasn't a bold decision.

It just happened.

He stood up,

Stretched with a sigh that had no particular emotion behind it,

And wandered down the hall toward the spare room.

He rarely went in there.

It had a slightly different smell.

The door creaked open,

More from habit than rust.

The spare room contained a single bed,

A chest of drawers,

And a reading lamp that had never quite pointed where you wanted it to.

There was also a rug,

Blue and beige,

Though mostly beige now,

That he vaguely remembered purchasing in a sale,

Because it had been described as durable.

He stepped inside and looked around,

As if visiting a distant relative.

The rain was still ticking against the windows,

But it sounded different in here.

Slightly more distant,

More polite.

He liked that.

He sat on the edge of the bed,

Careful not to disturb the blanket,

Which had developed a set of creases so old they were practically part of the fabric.

He placed the mug on the floor beside him,

Just slightly out of reach,

Which meant he had to lean a little to get it.

He wasn't sure why he'd done that.

He looked around the room for a while.

The curtains were closed,

But not entirely,

Allowing a slice of grey light to fall across the carpet like a bored spotlight.

The bookshelf held twelve books,

All unread,

Purchased with the vague intention of one day becoming a person who read historical fiction.

He picked one up,

Opened it to the middle,

Saw the word historical,

And quietly closed it again.

Instead,

He lay back on the bed,

Not to nap,

Not to think,

Just to lie down.

It felt different to the brown chair.

Flutter,

Less committed.

He stared at the ceiling.

Which had a tiny crack that might have been there last time,

Or might be new.

Either way,

It didn't matter.

Just something to notice.

And then,

For no particular reason at all,

He smiled.

Only a little,

Just enough that he could feel it,

And not so much that anyone else would have noticed.

After a time,

Perhaps twenty minutes,

Perhaps forty,

He sat up and looked around,

As if surprised to find himself still in the spare room.

He retrieved the now lukewarm tea from the floor,

And finished it in three long sips.

Then he stood,

Stretched again,

And made his way back to the kitchen,

Where the light had changed ever so slightly,

Softening with the slow approach of evening.

He checked the clock,

Not because he needed to,

But because he always checked it,

Before deciding what to eat.

He opened the fridge.

There was a tomato there.

He took out the beige container.

Inside was leftover macaroni,

Plain and undecorated,

As if pasta had given up on impressing anyone.

He spooned it into a bowl,

Microwaved it for two minutes,

Stirred it with the same spoon as earlier,

And sat at the table facing the beige wall.

He chewed quietly,

Thoughtfully,

As if evaluating the experience of eating,

Rather than the food itself.

Outside,

The rain continued.

It was beginning to slow now,

Or was it?

Maybe not.

He finished his dinner,

Rinsed the bowl,

And placed it precisely where the breakfast bowl had been.

He looked at the draining board for a moment,

And gave a small nod,

As though confirming that the day had,

Indeed,

Been lived.

He switched off the television,

Which had been quietly murmuring all day.

And padded slowly down the hall.

He brushed his teeth with the efficiency of a man,

Who knew exactly how long it should take.

In the mirror,

His face looked exactly the same as it always did.

And that was oddly comforting.

He turned off the bathroom light,

Listened to the silence for a moment,

And made his way to the bedroom.

The room was cool and still.

He got into bed without ceremony,

Pulling the blanket up to his chest,

And folding his arms in the same way he had done every night for years.

But tonight,

Without really knowing why,

He left the curtain open a crack,

Just enough to see the pale glimmer of a street lamp,

And the water falling down the window.

And as he lay there,

Perfectly still,

He thought,

Not loudly,

But gently,

That maybe today had been just slightly different.

Quite naturally,

He closed his eyes.

He didn't fall asleep right away.

He never did.

But tonight,

As he lay there beneath the blanket,

Something about the room felt a little warmer.

Not in temperature,

But in tone.

The familiar creak of the wardrobe,

The distant ticking of the hallway clock,

The rain falling outside.

All of it sounded just slightly more aggrieved.

Unusual.

Not remarkable.

Not thrilling.

Just fine.

He shifted once,

Then again,

Then settled.

His feet found a comfortable position almost immediately,

Which they rarely did.

The pillow felt just right.

He stared up at the ceiling,

Letting his eyes go heavy.

And thought about nothing in particular,

Which,

For him,

Was the best kind of thinking.

And then,

Very quietly,

He saw a light.

He smiled again.

A real smile this time.

Still small.

Still modest.

But unmistakable.

The kind of smile that happens when you realize,

In the middle of a rainy day,

In the middle of an ordinary week,

In the middle of a perfectly boring life,

That you're actually quite content.

And with that,

He fell asleep.

Peacefully.

Easily.

The most boring man in the world drifted off now.

Wrapped in the quiet joy of knowing that today had been perfectly,

Wonderfully,

Uneventfully,

His.