Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder was mistaken. More than a fortnight of having my own bed, with only a little-un's fever to disturb me, has been nothing short of bliss. Complete bliss.
The last three nights have seen me a) on the wagon and b) laying awake full of murderous intentions. Is torture by snoring a justifiable defence for, if not murder itself, then GBH at least?
My sympathy for his long day evaporated as my head hit the pillow: I hear heavy breathing. I ignore it and read. It doesn't seems so bad. Yet...
Slowly it builds. Like an orchestra. Of roaring lions. And wheezing birds. Quietly at first, with a bit of rhythmn. Of sorts. When the open mouthed nasal sounds start to pump up the volume I find a swift small kick in the shins gives my ears a 30 second breather. A huff and puff and over He turns. And then it starts proper. With gusto. Small repeated rabbit punches in the back eventually register and, my worse nightmare begins: He rolls onto his back. Now I know there is no hope as the full force of a fortnight's missed snoring begins. And continues. Long and loud into the night. I put my head under the pillow: no difference. I slap and punch him: not one snorey breath is lost. I consider the options of sharing with each of the dustbin lids in turn. I reject them all - by size or too close for comfort factor.
After an hour I am resigned to a third disturbed night in a row. Then suddenly, without warning, it stops. I close my eyes and take deep breaths: knowing it's now or never: my one chance to nod off.
At least I can get some rest today in the office!
No comments:
Post a Comment