Good evening. Welcome to the Just Sleep podcast. I'm Tasia, your host. Every week, I will read you

an old story to help you relax, put the stressful day behind you, and drift off to sleep.

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Tonight, I will be reading A Little Cloud, a short story by James Joyce.

So lie down, close your eyes, and let me read you a story.

Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him Godspeed. Gallagher had got on. You could tell that at once by his

travelled air, his well-cut tweed suit, and fearless accent.

Few fellows had talents like his, and fewer still could remain unspoiled by such success.

Gallowher's heart was in the right place, and he had deserved to win. It was something to have a friend like that.

Little Chandler's thoughts ever since lunchtime had been of his meeting with Galaher, of

Gallowher's invitation and the great city London where Gallowher lived. He was called Little

Chandler because, though he was but slightly under the average stature,

he gave one the idea of being a little man.

His hands were white and small.

His frame was fragile.

His voice was quiet, and his manners were refined.

He took the greatest care of his fair,

silken hair and mustache, and he used perfume discreetly on his handkerchief. The half-moons of his nails were perfect, and when he smiled, you caught a glimpse of a row of childish white

...