Night Shift at the Shipping Forecast

At ten to one in the morning, a continuity announcer reads a list of sea areas to a country mostly asleep. Few who listen are at sea. The forecast has become something stranger and more durable than weather: a lullaby, a liturgy, a shape the night reliably takes.

It is the kind of subject The Lantern was made for: small enough to overlook, large enough to organise a life around once you start to notice it. We sent a writer to notice it properly.

The full piece continues below.