You can read the text below — and/or click on the arrow above to listen to the podcast of the story (also available on Sweetman Podcast on Spotify, Amazon, Apple and wherever you get your podcasts)

Michaela remembers when things were different. She is thinking this while winding the spool of tape from her cassette back into itself with a trusty pencil. Who even uses pencils these days she thinks as she slots the tape into the stereo’s open deck and though the sound crumbles into place at first, soon she is listening to Tori Amos singing her birthday-cake cabaret about chasing nuns in the yard, running naked, unmasked, while it’s raining. At least the music takes her places — lets her live thirty years ago, transports her in some sense. What good is now? Where is the magic in this exact world?

Ben takes the book from the shelf, sees the inscription to himself — he really met the author, they had a beer, they had a chat. And after that, he took the book home, to live with the words some more. A while from then, a baby needed nappies, a downsizing took place as well, so he sold the book for scraps of change. He missed it more than any of the others. But then — what chance — he found it again at one of those charity sales with the cardboard boxes that heave and all the airport novels no longer going anywhere. He paid the ten bucks to fill a bag; donated back everything else he bought — all he wanted was that one. It sits with the small handfuls of other books he never sold and never will. It gives him something to hold on to still. It’s good to have something to hold. And to hold onto the story around the book as well as the one within it. Ben met the author. Did you know that?

Ron reckons records are always making a comeback, because every time a new streaming platform opens, several old albums disappear down the back of the metaphorical couch — deep into the metaphysical void. It’s nice to be the keeper of the same old memories that re-enter the consciousness when the revolutions reach thirty-three and one third every minute. Ron knows he can never undo the damage he’s done, the needle strikes down into the groove, and to reverse the record would only make more of a mess. He knows that. But tears deserve a soundtrack. And so, there is still — and always — some happiness this way.

Stella lifts the photo album out from the box from under the bed. She blows the dust from the cover, and studies the inside of the folder: A piece of paper with only remnants of its original sellotape but the years have pushed the paper to the plastic, a tighter bond than many of the people in the pictures have with each other now. But you have to honour the dead. And the passing of time is just another casualty in this war we are all fighting regardless of sign-up. Stella sees her parents making nice, and their parents all standing proud. She sees herself, though can barely recognise the place or why she’s dressed that way. She has a box of letters from her brother Evan. But she could never read his writing.

Nina doesn’t think that Netflix is the enemy as such, but everything’s made to look the same. It’s all designed to be viewed as if a shop window, but no one has thought much further than lining up the product. She has bought back DVDs from the garage sales and second-hand stores. She has exact copies of films she once owned; she has movies she’s never seen and may never get to either, but she has them as a finite collection, a way of making some sense in the world. A way of cutting through the infinite. Some days feel just like a knife. It’s good to be able to stab into the finite.

Wiremu holds the feathers from the skirt his mother wore for school performances. Only a few remain. He put them in his hair before they made him take them out, before they made him answer to William, before he knew the rest of the skirt was rushed out in a box with anything else that suddenly felt leftover. Wiremu strokes the feathers. He says his mum meant more than feathers but now this is all he has. He says don’t ever call him William.

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I haven’t made a bit of music for a while. Some would say I never have — including after hearing any of the pieces. Fair enough.

With that in mind, here’s my most recent. A wee piece I call New Coat. I guess I tried to address the question no one was asking — what would happen if Moby and Robert Miles collaborated after they’d both been hit in the head a bit?

My (“musical”) answer is above.

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We are back with the tenth episode of We All Float Down Here — A Stephen King podcast. Our second of 2025 is the King’s first YA title, The Eyes of The Dragon, and since there’s no film version, as yet (and unlikely to ever be), and because it’s related — age-wise, we also dip into his graphic novelette, The Cycle of the Werewolf, and its ropey film adaptation, Silver Bullet.

The podcast goes out on YouTube first and foremost — so we’d love you to like and subscribe over there.

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I haven’t made a bit of music for a while. Some would say I never have — including after hearing any of the pieces. Fair enough.

With that in mind, here’s my most recent. A wee piece I call Dark Winds. Might use it for some spoken word at some point, but for now, here it is.

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When George Harrison died, I helped move a friend from her flat in Elizabeth St to her new place then in Tasman St. From Mt Vic to Mt Cook sounds like the title to a down-scaling book but this was just how it was back in 2001. We scrubbed the walls to get the smoke stains off from where the pictures had been and all the while the radio was playing Beatles songs.

I was on the heavy lifting, helping the removal men when they arrived. I was lifting tables and chairs, computer desks and various things down the alleyway to the street front. It was baking hot; I’d played a gig the night before and stayed up late drinking whatever was in the house as a toast to the Quiet Beatle. My hangover was getting a workout.

The removal truck arrived, driven by the world’s rudest man. He was instantly a caricature. Loud and dumb and full of himself. And his truck was in the middle of the street – a one-way road. He figured everyone could wait because he was on a paid job. And when he did, grudgingly, move the truck, he backed it into someone’s car. A neighbour popped his head in to say he’d seen what happened. The moving man stuck his neck out to tell the man to forget what he saw if he wanted to keep all his fingers. Then there was a car of women beeping. Beeping. Trying to tell this man to move.

I was head-down and just bringing out the loads of stuff. But I said, at one point, that maybe he ought to move his truck. He laughed maniacally and then went to meet the women in the car. He bent down, leaned in and hoiked a giant spit right into the face of the driver. His co-worker laughed, then corrected himself, shook his head, was mortified. And he asked the lunatic, “why did you do that?”

The meathead replied that it was the “the dirtiest thing I could think to do”.

The radio belted out I Me Mine and Here Comes The Sun and Taxman and While My Guitar Gently Weeps. All those great George Harrison-penned Beatles songs. We heard a few of the solo gems too – obviously My Sweet Lord and All Those Years Ago, that cover of Got My Mind Set on You and a Travelling Wilburys song – or two.

But this was the end of the line. A guy spat in a woman’s face because he couldn’t be bothered to move his truck. Because he was sure that he was the boss. Because he knew that he was large – and if not in charge he was still the king. At least of anything that mattered in his world. We were mortified. Horrified. We were stunned to silence – and didn’t feel good about that.

We had a story. A weird story. And it’s one we’ll always have. Me and the friend I helped move that day…were married a few years on, we’ve moved houses a handful of times since that occasion. We’ve streamlined all we can but the mess continues to grow, the stuff we don’t need builds up around us. And we have a son now that wants to know any story about The Beatles that we can think of.

One day, he can read this. And make of it what he will.

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