Nocturne Tim Bosley

My wife is snoring, something later she will refuse to believe.

The dog is snoring. Earlier he was dreaming –his twitching legs and muffled barking the tell tale signs.

Although they have both left home, my sons, no doubt, are snoring, tucked up in bed with their snoring girlfriends.

Tonight the world is snoring except for me.

I could count sheep, of course, but sheep need sleep. Or flick through the TV channels, but where’s the fun in that?

I’m fine. I’m in the garden, with a glass of Rioja, Dave Brubeck in the corner and all those celestial bodies jiving the night away.