Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe - Obsession - Blood Pressure Chair & Dave’s Truck

Episode Date: April 18, 2025

“It was not as if they *needed* a 1948 red panel truck…”On today’s episode, two hilarious Vinyl Cafe stories that highlight Dave’s tendency to, let’s say, really commit to the things in his life. In the first story it’s his health, in the second, a special new purchase. Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Their healthy start balm is safe for newborns, moisturizing, comforting, and supporting baby's skin moisture barrier from day one. It's gentle, soothing, and a small way to care for the ones we love most. Learn more at Aveeno.ca. From the Apostrophe Podcast Network. Hello, I'm Jess Milton and this is Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe. Welcome. If you've spent much time listening to Vinyl Cafe stories, then you'll know that our hero, Dave, can tend to, well, obsess about things.

It's a trait I think he'd be the first to admit to, although he may just describe it as being thorough. Today on the show, two stories that demonstrate that kind of thoroughness. In the first story, Dave focuses on his health. This is Stuart McLean with The Blood Pressure Chair. On Friday morning while he was shaving, Dave was surprised to see a blemish on his cheek, the blood pressure chair. On Friday morning while he was shaving, Dave was surprised to see a blemish on his cheek.

A small red dot had appeared on his face overnight. He didn't pay any attention at first, but as he was leaving the house, he thought about it once again, and he went back to the bathroom to check. A pimple? He hadn't had a pimple in years. He got to the front door again and was about to pull it shut behind him when the thought crashed down on him. He was 46 years old.

46 year olds didn't get pimples. They got skin cancer. He was back in the house in a flash. He found Morley's magnifying makeup mirror. Was that how it happened? You woke up one morning and you had skin cancer? What else could it be? Dave couldn't get the blemish out of his mind. He checked it three times before lunch. He thought about phoning Dr. Freeberg

and having her look at it, but what if it was a pimple? He didn't want to risk sitting in his doctor's office and hearing her tell him that. He wished Morley was home so that he could show her, but Morley had taken the kids away for the weekend. Like many men, Dave has a complicated relationship with his body. He inhabits his body the way a nervous traveler settles into a commercial airliner. Carefully monitoring every arrhythmia. Continually aware that only through a force of his will does he stay in the air.

When Dave and Morley got married, Dave's friend Dorothy suggested the minister change the marriage vow for Dave's turn, change it from in sickness and in health to in sickness and remission. Very funny said Dave. He couldn't help what his mind did with a list of symptoms. The cancer, as he had come to think of it, preyed on his mind all day. By closing time, he decided to treat it symptomatically, like a pimple.

Even if it wasn't better, by the time Morley got back, he'd go to the doctor. He wasn't going to show it to Morley. She wouldn't take it seriously. Instead, he thought about asking Debbie Anderson about it. Debbie is the girl who came in on Wednesday and Friday nights and had since he hired her being his favourite part-timer. She had short blonde hair and elfish smile, big brown eyes. She went to the University of Toronto. She wanted to be a phys ed teacher. Do you think this is skin cancer?

said Dave in the middle of the afternoon to Debbie Anderson. Debbie looked at Dave and then at the spot on his face and then she laughed and said, oh yeah, all the skin cancers I've seen started out just like that. A closing time, Dave went to the drugstore and picked up a tube of clearacel. He headed toward the cash register and as he did he looked around to see if he knew anyone in line. He felt like he was buying a pack of condoms and he wanted to do it privately.

He walked around the store to make sure he was safe. His heart froze when he saw the blood pressure chair. It was in the corner at the back of the store. Now, over the years, Dave has had his blood pressure tested on a number of occasions. Dr. Freeberg had always reported a more or less normal reading. But Dave suspected that these normal readings were not an accurate reflection of reality. They were always taken after he'd been left in the waiting room

for 20 or 30 minutes. Why shouldn't he be relaxed? He suspected that the normal readings were in all likelihood abnormal. Sometimes when he was upset he felt his blood pounding in his ears. Surely that wasn't normal. He decided his blood pressure was variable and dependent on stimuli beyond his control. He had never had an opportunity to check his theory. That's why the chair terrified him. It was one thing to suspect you had high blood pressure. It was another thing to know it. Dave didn't want his body to know its own blood pressure. He suspected that if his body knew how close it was to making the leap from borderline to hypertense, it would abandon everything else, all the various viruses and bacterias, and launch a frontal assault on a circulatory system. The blood pressure chair looked like a self-service electric chair.

There was a slot on the armrest to slip your arm through in a cuff that presumably inflated when you started the machine. Dave was aware that if he sat down and surrendered his arm to the machine, horrible things could happen. Someone who knew him could waltz in as the machine was printing a score. The idea of Dorothy from the bookstore knowing that his diastolic blood pressure was north of 180 horrified Dave. Horrified him more than the implications of the information itself. He knew it didn't make sense, but he felt if no one, including him and his doctor, knew

what his blood pressure was, then it didn't count. It was like cheating on a diet. There was a stack of instruction pamphlets besides the machine. Dave slipped one into his pocket. He didn't read it until he was out on the street. And it opened a whole new realm of possibilities, including step-by-step instructions of what he should do if his reading was zero over zero. Something even Dave hadn't imagined.

He went out to supper, and then instead of going going home he went back to the drugstore and he cruised by the chair the way he had cruised by Renny Atwater's house when he was a teenage boy and he was hopelessly in love. He felt just the same, oppressed, anxious, hopeful, hopeless. Just thinking about the chair raised his blood pressure. He knew he was doomed, and he also knew that he'd have to try it when there was no possibility of anyone seeing him. He decided that the early morning would be best. The drug store opened at nine. Two days later, Dave showed up at 10 minutes before opening time. He waited on the far side of the street. He felt like a bank robber. When they

unlocked the doors he was the first person in the store and it didn't take him more than a minute to do the test he figured. He could be in and gone before anyone saw him. So he went right to the chair and rolled up his sleeve and sat down and put his arm through the metal slot and he pushed the large green button that said, begin test. He felt the rubber cuff inflate and tighten around his forearm. He felt his heart pounding and then he felt an excruciating pain run down his arm. Jesus, he was having a heart attack. The machine was squeezing him tighter than he thought it should. Surely it shouldn't feel like this. Surely it shouldn't hurt. He tried to pull his arm out of the cuff. It wouldn't come. He pulled again. Still it wouldn't budge. He

looked at the black screen. It was like the screen of a bank machine. It began flashing his score in bright red numbers, 130 over 75. Not bad. Better than he thought. Well within normal limits. Okay, thought Dave, now let me go. But it didn't. It wouldn't. Dave felt panic surge through him. He was trapped in the chair. He pulled again more recklessly this time, still nothing.

He looked at the screen. His blood pressure had risen to 135 over 78. He tried to relax. Then he jerked his arm violently. Still nothing. Now his blood pressure was 140 over 80. Borderline hypertense. Oh God, he thought. This is crazy. He tried to calm himself down again. He sat for a full minute without moving, just following his breath in and out. Something had happened to the machine. The rubber cuff wouldn't deflate and until it deflated the metal slot which was holding his arm in the chair would not release him. He opened his eyes. Maybe there's a button I'm supposed to push, he thought. Maybe there's a release button somewhere. He couldn't see

a release button. He pulled his arm again, button somewhere. He couldn't see a release button. He pulled his arm again, still nothing. He didn't know what to do. He was getting claustrophobic. Collect your thoughts, Dave. What's the worst thing that could happen? Somebody could see him. Somebody he knew could see him there.

No. No, the store could catch fire. And he sat there wondering if he could stand up and hump his way out of the store with a chair attached to him. He imagined getting as far as the checkout counter and then getting wedged in the aisle by the cash register. He thought of dying of smoke inhalation by the cash register with a blood pressure chair attached to his back. The chair strapped to him like a tortoiseshell.

It was the kind of trivial death that Dave's always feared, like being hit by a diaper truck. The kind of death where his friends would gather quietly in some solemn funeral parlor until someone started to giggle. Dave didn't want people giggling at his funeral. He wanted a death with dignity. He began to struggle so violently that the chair started rocking. He heard a man's voice say, What's going on over there? Dave looked at the screen.

The red numbers were blinking like the clock on a broken VCR, except they were ascending. His blood pressure had sailed through borderline and was now firmly entrenched in hypertense. A hundred and sixty over ninety-three. Dave looked up and saw Bill Turner, the pharmacist heading toward him. And to his horror, behind Bill, he saw Debbie Anderson. He felt his heart accelerate. He glanced at the screen, 172 over 90. This was a nightmare.

He had the blood pressure of a 75-year-old man. He twisted desperately in the chair and reached for the screen with his left hand, trying to cover the blinking red numbers. The way a man caught outside his house with no clothes on might cover his groin. He felt naked, exposed, humiliated. Debbie and Bill Turner arrived at the chair at the same time. Hi, said Dave, smiling weakly, still trying to cover the screen. I'm stuck, said Dave. My arm, I can't get my arm out.

Bill was staring at Dave as if he had asked him for spare change. See, he said, rattling his arm, it won't come out. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears. He felt like he was going to faint. I'm not going to faint, he said to himself. Hi, Dave, said Debbie cheerfully. And then she said, your nose is bleeding.

Dave's left hand involuntarily flew away from the screen. He brought it up to his face and when he took it away he saw blood on his fingers. And then everyone turned simultaneously from his red hand to the red numbers blinking on the now uncovered screen. The numbers reminded Dave of the digital displays they have in modern elevators. Sadly, the elevator was going up. The three of them watched the screen blink from 172 up to and through 180. It settled at 181.

Geez, Dave, said Bill Turner, are you okay? I can't get my arm out, said Dave for the third time. Dave felt a drop of blood land in his lap. I'll get you some Kleenex, said Debbie. The fire department arrived 45 minutes later. By then Dave's blood pressure had settled at 178 over 95. Gee, said the fire chief looking at the screen, are you okay? The drug store had taken on the festive feel of an accident scene.

There were about 15 people standing in a circle around the chair. Every few minutes someone new arrived and there was a blush of whispering as they asked what was going on. After 20 more minutes of fiddling with the chair the chief sent a man out to the truck to get the jaws of life. to get the jaws of life. They were going to cut Dave out. Wait a minute said Bill Turner, you're going to wreck the chair. For God's sake Bill said Dave, I'll pay for the chair, just get me out of here. It took them five minutes.

Everyone applauded when Dave stood up. He rubbed his arm carefully and said he was fine and he looked at his watch and said he had to go. People slapped him on the back as he pushed through the crowd as if he had won a race or something. Debbie Anderson handed him another Kleenex and said, I'll see you Wednesday. Kleenex and said, I'll see you Wednesday. The red blemish on his face disappeared a week afterwards. He never mentioned it to Morley. Thank you. That was the story we call the blood pressure chair.

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Welcome back. I told you we had two stories for you today. Here's the second. This is Dave's Truck. You'll be sorry to hear that Dave's Aunt Elizabeth died this autumn in her house in Halifax. She dozed off in her chair one afternoon and that was that. The call came a few weeks later, a lawyer in Glace Bay. There were two boxes, box for him and one for his sister Annie. Where did he want the boxes shipped? Boxes, said Dave. Electric kettles, said the lawyer.

Twelve for you and 25 for your sister. And Elizabeth, who spent the last decade of her life boiling every drop of water she used, even her bath water. It removes the poisons, she said. Dave called his sister, Annie. I knew she liked you better," he said. Sometimes Elizabeth would get all her kettles boiling at once, and her house would fill with steam, and Elizabeth would sit in the parlor with her cat, her blue hair, and her powder running down her cheeks. She looked like that character from Batman.

The Joker, said Sam. She was a piece of business, said Morley. One of a kind, said Dave. There's also some money, said the lawyer. The idea of getting Aunt Elizabeth's money made Dave sad. Don't get me wrong, he said to his pal Kenny Wong, it's very nice, I appreciate it, but I wish she had spent it, gone on a trip or bought herself, I don't know, even if she had bought herself more cattle. What do you want to do with it?" said Morley.

They decided to do nothing, or not right away. They decided they would each make a list. And so they spent a few weeks with ideas whizzing through their heads. Put in a steam room said Kenny Waldo. Do the kitchen cabinets said Mary Turlington. A few weeks later one night after dinner Morley dropped a file folder on the kitchen cabinets," said Mary Turlington. A few weeks later, one night after dinner, Morley dropped a file folder on the kitchen table.

Dave sat down and stared at it. Dave said, you first. Morley opened her file folder. She had a list of plumbers, a recommendation for a roofer. She had information on GICs, a brochure for a fitness camp, and I could go on. She did. Morley had lots of ideas, sound, sensible ideas.

Dave listened carefully until Morley said, your turn. And Dave reached into his back pocket and he took out his wallet and he pulled out a single piece of paper and he flattened it out on the table. Morley leaned forward. The page had been torn from a car magazine, a vintage car magazine. Truck for sale. One of a kind, a 1948 GMC panel truck, Viper Red. 1948 GMC panel truck, Viper Red. My grandfather had exactly the same truck said Dave, exactly. Morally stared at the picture, looked like a vintage fire truck but smaller and the cab closed at the back,

the truck maybe the chief would drive. Dave said my dad got it when grandpa stopped driving. Dave said, he drove it right through the 60s. Dave said, he used to put everyone in the back and take us to Glace Bay for ice cream. It was the car Dave learned to drive in. Same model, said Dave, same year, same color, same everything. It's in Portland, Maine," said Morley.

As if that pretty much made it impossible. I know, said Dave. Isn't that cool? Took 15 minutes, no more. Fifteen minutes and Morley gave in without a fuss. You might even say she gave in gracefully. Elizabeth was, after all, his aunt. Dave flew to Portland, Maine. The Friday he left, when that Friday came and he actually went, the reality of it rankled

morally a little. She was not exactly resentful, but she was rankled. It was not as if they needed a 1948 panel truck. He called Saturday morning, got it, he said. He sounded positively gleeful. Great, said Marlee. She sounded less so. He drove home along the interstate, going as fast as 55 miles an hour when he was going downhill. But when he went that fast, the steering wheel would start

to shake and it scared him. So most of the time he rolled along in the slow lane, waving at everyone who slowed to wave at him. It was like he was in a parade. Like he was a fire chief. It was that very Saturday afternoon, the Saturday he was driving home from Maine, that Morley's friend Susan phoned.

I'm in town, said Susan. Can I meet you for brunch? Susan and Brian were splitting up. Oh, Susan, said Morley. But at brunch, Susan seemed just fine. Susan said, sure, why not? You know Brian, do you? Susan said he always wanted the best of everything

because we couldn't afford to buy anything cheap. If I never hear that again. His shirts are custom made said Susan. Who gets custom made shirts? Who has a hand carved cherry wood shoe rack in their walk in cedar closet? Susan held her hands out, palms up. Susan said he's ready to pay for the best, but he isn't ready to work for it.

Or not with me. Morley just sat there and nodded at her friend. Susan said, state of the art. That's Brian's big deal. Everything has to be state of the art. One morning I woke up and I asked myself, is our marriage state of the art? Susan sat back and cocked her head. Morley said, state of the art?

Susan said, exactly. Morley, I'm not happy and I'm getting older. This might be my last chance to find happiness. Brian and I don't want the same things anymore. And that is when Dave drove by the little cafe where they were eating in his brand new Viper Red 1948 panel truck. The truck was in the garage by the time Morley got home. It stayed there for the rest of the winter. Out of sight, but not out of mind.

Over the winter, Dave, Dave, Dave who considered it a mechanical achievement to drive a car through a car wash. Dave who had never displayed an inkling of interest in this sort of thing became mechanical man. Every night he came home, ate dinner, and as soon as dinner was over he disappeared into the garage. What exactly was going on out there was a mystery. Not because Dave kept it from anyone, he reported endlessly on what was happening out there as if he was curating some sort of exhibit. However, he

did this in a language that was not quite English, talking about cowls and clock springs, flanges and pans. What Morley understood was that he was renovating the car. Restoring, said Dave, not renovating. And that involved searching parts. Vintage parts, said Dave. Knobs for the radio, handles for the doors.

At first it was easy to ignore, but ever so slowly, the garage made its way into the house. Odd bits and pieces of stuff which seemed to attach themselves to Dave like iron filings attached to a magnet. Bits that came into the house with him and then were shed. Everywhere. There was a box in the front hall

with something dark and geary that sat there for weeks. Thumbed magazines and greasy manuals in the bathroom, the family room, and the indignity of it. The bedroom. And then one night Morley opened the cupboard below the sink and her tea towel, the one with the picture of the

wine bottle, the one that Mary had brought home from Napa Valley, the one that gave Morley hope that one day she too would go to Napa. That tea towel was covered in grease and oil. Dave tried to make it up to her the following night. Do you want to go for a drive in the truck? he asked. Her first time, sadly this was February, and sadly back in 1948 when Dave's truck was built heaters and defrosters were not high on the GMC radar.

Marley spent her first ride leaning out the passenger window with an ice scraper, trying to keep the windshield free of ice. This is amazing, said Dave. This is exactly what we used to do. Dave was determined to get the truck back to its original magnificence. He added wood paneling on the back panel walls. He had his friend Jeff who paints tour buses, paint a vintage sign on the back panels. Vinyl cafe, we may not be big, but we're small. He fussed over the font for weeks. What exactly are you doing? said Morley one night. She was trying to understand the impulse behind the fever. I'm getting it ready said Dave. Ready for what? said Morley. The question seemed to catch him by surprise. Dave tried to explain it to her. I don't know, he explained. It was like he was building the Ark. Did the Lord

tell you to do this? asked Morley. And then she said, you really love that car, don't you? Truck, said Dave. Right, said Morley, truck, you really love that truck. And Dave, who had been feeling guilty about all the time he had been spending in the garage, felt a wave of relief in his wife's apparent change of heart. He stood up and he wandered across the kitchen away from her.

It's strange, he said, as he stared out the window. He was staring at the garage. I don't think I've ever loved anything as much as I love Ruby. Ruby said Marlene. The truck that had moved into their garage had a name. It hadn't occurred to Marley that she was living with another woman. Marley was first to bed that night. As she sat there, her book open across her knees, she looked over at Dave's empty side. And then at the little piece of cord dangling from the bed post. She reached over and gave the cord a tug.

A thermometer leapt over the back of the headboard and landed beside her. The thermometer was tied to the end of the cord. It had been there for years, close at hand in case Dave needed to take his temperature in the middle of the night. Morley stared at the thermometer, and then she stuck it in her mouth, wondering as she sat there, her arms crossed over her chest

if there was something wrong with her. For years, she had accepted stuff like this as normal. Was it possible she was out of her mind? The thermometer beat. She took it out. Normal. She shrugged and dropped it back behind the headboard. There were so many things that she had thought were sweet

and endearing, like for instance the Christmas Dave who was on the roof putting up the Christmas lights, froze his tongue on the television antenna. Maybe these things weren't sweet after all. Maybe they were crazy things. And if they were crazy, what was he? She got up and went to the office and fetched a pen and a pencil and she sat in her bed and began a list.

She wrote tongue, frozen to antenna. Then Christmas turkey. She wrote down, presents he has given me, and underlined it. Under that she wrote, silly putty. That was the first gift he ever gave her. Sent it in the mail without explanation. Next she wrote, glow in the dark shoelaces. How did she ever find these things endearing?

Brian gave Susan diamond stud earrings and Susan was leaving Brian. If Susan's marriage wasn't state of the art, what was hers? A state of disrepair, if it was a state of anything, a state of confusion. It was like one of those shabby coffee makers you see at a yard sale, dinged up and grungy, missing bits, old, but not old enough to be vintage. Dave was coming upstairs. Morley scrunched her piece of paper under her pillow and turned off her light. She rolled over and pretended she was asleep.

Hey, said Dave. She heard him, but she didn't answer. Stephanie came home a few weeks later. She heard him, but she didn't answer. Stephanie came home a few weeks later, her boyfriend Tommy with her. Dave said, let's take the truck and go for ice cream. Sam came, the Turlington twins too. Morley said she didn't feel like ice cream. It was fun, said Dave, we went to the place with the gelato.

We stopped for gas and he threw a fit, said Sam. I didn't throw a fit, said Dave. I just explained to the man he shouldn't rest the gas tank top on the roof of the truck. I explained how he could scratch the paint. He threw a fit, said Sam. The next night, Stephanie and Tommy said they were going to the movies.

Stephanie said, can we take the car? And that's when Morley looked at Dave and said, why don't you let them take the truck? Dave looked astonished. No, not astonished. Dave looked horrified. Morley said, your dad used to let you drive to the movies all the way to Glace Bay and for ice cream. Sam said, can I go too? It happened as they always say these

things happen. It happened in slow motion. Stephanie parked the truck on an empty street around the corner from the theater. It was late enough that they didn't have to put money in the meter. They slammed the doors and they began walking. It was Sam who saw it. Hey, he said. And they all stopped, the three of them, and stood in a line staring. The truck was moving. Wasn't just moving, it was rolling, rolling ever so slowly

out of its parking spot. Tommy shouted, parking brake! Stephanie said, oh. Tommy was the first to move. Tommy ran towards the truck, but the truck had veered away from the sidewalk and was heading down the hill that they were parked on. By the time Tommy started running, the truck had picked up speed.

By the time he got close, it was a red blur. Stephanie said, uh-oh. Again. Sam said, wicked. It got further than you would have thought. It made it all the way to the bottom of the hill where the road curves. Sadly, it didn't make the curve.

Where the road curves, the truck jumped the sidewalk, rolled once, twice, landed on its roof, skidded maybe 10 yards and plowed sideways into a lamppost. After the crash, there was a moment of silence. Stephanie was standing on the sidewalk, her hand over her mouth. Tommy was ahead of her, clasping his hands over his head and rocking back and forth on his heels. Sam was the first to speak. Sam said, I think you're in trouble. And then there was a loud crack in the street lamp, swayed and toppled, and more or less severed what was left of the truck.

Sam said, yup, you're in trouble. Sam said, Dad is going to kill you. And then he whistled, this is way better than the movies. When Stephanie called Morley, she was crying. It was Morley who called Dave. The hill behind the theater said Morley, I'll meet you there. She had her arm around Stephanie when Dave stepped out of the taxi. No one said a word. Sam pointed

down the hill at the police car and the tow truck, the fire engine, and the severed 1948 Viper red GMC truck. Dave didn't say a word. He began to walk down the hill. Morley, Stephanie, Tommy, and Sam stayed at the top. They watched Dave trudge to the bottom and stop in front of the wreckage. They watched him stand there and nod to the tow truck driver who was hovering there with a hook. And then they watched as he walked up the hill again.

When Dave got to the top, Stephanie took a step towards him. It was an accident, she said. Well, said Dave quietly, I didn't think you did it on purpose. Tommy cringed. There was an uncomfortable pause. But there are accidents and there are accidents, said Dave. Stephanie stiffened. Morley held her breath.

Sam was grinning. But as far as accidents go, said Dave, this is the best kind. This is the lucky kind. No one was hurt. Dave moved over to Stephanie and put his arm around her shoulders. He looked down the hill again. The front end of his truck had been hoisted onto the back end of a flatbed.

Dave sighed and then he turned around and he smiled at Morley. Well, he said, it was fun while it lasted. And then he said, aren't you guys going to the movies? You better get a move on. Sam turned to his mother. Isn't he going to kill her? I guess not, said Morley, who was smiling. Sam's shoulders slumped. Rip-off. Dave said, Let's go home. He was talking to Morley, not the kids. He held his hand out and Morley handed him the keys to their car.

We'll take a taxi, he said. And he handed the car keys to Stephanie. You bring the car home when you're done, he said. Stephanie shook her head. Dave said, back on the horse, sweetheart. And then he took Morley by the arm and said, come on. Stephanie and Tommy stood on the sidewalk for a moment, watching Morley and Dave walk away.

Wow, said Tommy. Yeah, said Sam. Just when you think you're going to have a little bit of fun. Morley and Dave didn't take a cab home, they walked. And they didn't talk about the truck. Dave told Morley about a guy who had come into a store that very morning with a box of vinyl from the UK. Some of it was still sealed, he said.

You don't often see that. He listed off the albums one by one. Morley walked along letting it wash over her, not really paying attention. She was thinking he liked his stuff, no doubt about that. He liked his comic collection and his record players and he liked his truck. He loved his truck. But he never got seriously wound up over any of it. He got goofy maybe, and obsessive, over-involved, ridiculous, but not wound up. Say what you want about him. He knew what was important. Morley thought of that little list that she had written in bed, the one she had shoved under her pillow. She took Dave's hand. You know what you are, she said.

What said Dave? State of the art, said Morley. You are a state of the art guy. I don't know You are a state of the art guy. I don't know about that said Dave. But he didn't disagree. That was the story we called Dave's Truck. You know, from the outside it would be easy to wonder why Morley would stay with Dave. I mean, it would be easy to wonder why Morley would stay with Dave. I mean, it would be a challenge. But I think what Stuart was trying to do with that story was remind us all that Dave might be crazy and he might mess things up, but he has his priorities straight.

For Dave, life really is about the people you love. While curled up on the couch with your cat. There's more to imagine when you listen. Discover heart-pounding thrillers on Audible. Backstage at the Vinyl Cafe is part of the Apostrophe Podcast Network. The recording engineer is a man who looks great in a kilt, Greg DeCloote. Theme music is by Danny Michelle and the show is produced by Louise Curtis, Greg DeCloote and me, Jess Milton. Let's meet again next week. Until then, so long for now.

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While you cooked a lasagna. There's more to imagine when you listen. Discover bestselling adventure stories on Audible. Acast powers the world's best podcasts. Here's a show that we recommend. Have you ever finished a book and just needed to talk about it immediately or wanted to know the wildest research an author has done for a book or even what book talk books are actually worth your time? Hi, I'm Morgan Book. Yes, that is actually my last name. And this is Off the Shelf, my new podcast that covers everything related to books.

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