The minutes after I’ve got into bed can be a time of agonising indecision. Usually, Herself has already nodded off, so I creep into the room, undress and arrange myself into a sleep position. And I’m usually drifting off when I’m jerked back to consciousness by a guttural snort from the other side of the bed.
Oh, no.
This is the indecisive part: was that snore a one-off? Just a nasal blockage that needed clearing? I could go into the spare room – that’s what it’s there for – but I was nearly asleep and now I’m nice and warm, and don’t want to start the procedure all over again.
So, I wait. But I’m a bit tense now. It’s difficult to get relaxed. I employ some magical thinking: if I turn over, I’ll be a little bit farther away. And I’ll put the duvet over my ear. If there are any other snores I might not even hear them.
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But of course I do; a snort, followed by a series of raspy breaths. I place a hand gently on Herself and ask: will you take a sniff? Not fully awake, she says sorry and goes back to snoring. I go into the spare room.
For the purposes of scrupulous accuracy and mitigating any marital disharmony, I need to stress that this doesn’t happen very often. It’s occasional, usually when Herself has a bit of a cold. But often enough for me to be familiar with it. I should also stress that I have just as many snoring episodes. In my case, alcohol may be involved and Herself is far more decisive about decamping to the other room.
Obviously, I don’t know what my snoring sounds like, but from Herself’s description, it is, tonally and volume-wise, similar to her own. We’re not at the point where the neighbours can hear it.
There’s no resentment either. The following morning, the offending snorer will always apologise and the one who had to move doesn’t make a big deal out of it. We know we both can’t help it.
Yet it is a puzzle – and a slight worry – that snoring has become a feature of our nights. We are both relatively light sleepers and we both maintain that in the past, we didn’t snore at all: that if we did emit the odd snort, we’d wake ourselves up. I wouldn’t want it to develop into a problem. I have, on occasion, slept in houses where one of the residents snored to a truly extraordinary degree, where the neighbours almost certainly could hear it: a jazz-like cacophony of long and short snorts, projected with a thunderous force. There’s something slightly mesmerising about it: until there’s a pause in the musical action, and you can’t help but wonder if they’re dead.
But then the music starts up again and you start to wonder why they are still alive: if, hysterical from sleep deprivation, loved ones forced to listen to this every night haven’t considered doing something desperate. The courts would understand. Because after a few hours of listening to it, snoring can become the aural embodiment of selfishness; a proclamation that the snorer is enjoying a deep and satisfying night’s sleep. At the expense of anyone within earshot.
Marriages have ended because of this kind of thing, so we both know we have to take it seriously. We’re not at the stage where we have to invest in one of those gas-mask contraptions, but it could happen.
Apparently, it gets worse the older you get: something to do with fat building up around the neck. Neither myself or Herself have fat necks. I’d go so far as to say that we both have the necks we had when we were 20. Yet when I’ve been snoring, I’ve noticed Herself looking at my neck; perhaps fighting the urge to put her hands around it. For measurement purposes, of course.