A Sideline View: Snoring leads to divorce

A snoring husband needs to turn over.

I got divorced last week. It was a fairly easy decision in the end. The idea had definitely crossed my mind before, but it wasn't until Hilary and Jeremy started talking it up on TV, that I finally made up my mind.

It'd been a long time coming and when confronted with the possibilities, it came as a revelation — and I have to say, it's changed my life.

The main problem has been the snoring. There's only so much you can take. I've got to give him his dues, it's not like he didn't try. First up was the apparatus which clamped onto the jaw. Unattractive and mildly painful. Plus it didn't work.

Then there was the nasal (or was it throat?) spray. He gave that a good go too — emptied the bottle — it didn't work either.

It looked at one point like there had been a miraculous cure. He read a book about breathing "properly", ie. through your nose. In order to train oneself to do so and rid oneself of one's bad mouth-breathing habits, one must tape the mouth.

So he bought a roll of the stuff, placed it firmly across his tightly closed lips and lay back to enjoy a deep sleep. Again very unattractive but there was a glimmer of hope — it appeared to work. Not a sound. (Don't hold your breath, I thought. Now there's an idea.)

I'm not sure if there's such a thing as a mouth tape placebo, but hey presto, the peace was over in a flash. After that snore-free night's slumber, I had been excited to go to bed the following night. But not long after his tape was in place and his head hit the pillow (before I hit him with the pillow), it began.

There appears to be a variety of styles, all of which fall into the ruin-my-sleep category. There's the loud staccato type snort. Not coming at predictable intervals, but just as I begin to drift off, the long awaited bliss is cruelly pierced with a sharp jab.

The hedgehog-esque snuffle isn't a lot better. Although more rhythmic, it still manages to penetrate the earplugs with nasty little nasal songs and a never-ending chorus.

No less distressing is the puff, pop, blow trilogy. It sounds as if he's about to say something starting with "P". I can think of a few choice words myself. Then there's the chainsaw, an off the radar, high intensity, teeth shattering racket, which I'd say probably takes the cake. There's no escape.

However, there did appear a small glimmer of hope on the horizon, and I'm not conceding much here, when it appeared there was an advantage to the tape.

It seems there's a longer lasting response to a sharp, swift kick. Could I possibly sneak in just a smidgen of non REM — anything will do — before the silence is so rudely broken. Not likely.

By now, of course, I am close to smothering mode. So tempting. Just a small smother surely wouldn't hurt too much. But with clenched fists and gritted teeth, I have held back.

I stumble out of bed, bleary-eyed, grab my pillow, book, glasses, earplugs, socks — by now completely wide-eyed — and in order to maintain my sanity, retreat to the spare room for a long overdue sleep divorce. If this is what it takes to get a good night's sleep, I'm signing on the dotted line.