Humour: Amanda Blair’s night-time symphony

Things that go grunt in the night

When darkness falls, an evening symphony descends on the household, one that sounds more like a chainsaw than a lullaby.

WORDS by AMANDA BLA R ILLUSTRATION by BRENT W SON

Houston, we have a problem. I’ve known it existed but until recently didn’t know the real extent of the issue and the impact it has on my nearest and dearest.

I snore. Badly.

Together for 25 years, husband has at times complained about my nocturnal noises but I’ve dismissed his concerns, thinking he was overblowing my air blowing like he’s overblown other things in our relationship – size of fish, size of my eBay addiction, size of diamonds, size of his … er … shoes.

O’er the years, in an attempt to reduce my output, he’s been known to roll me onto my side and prop me up with pillows behind my back – a little like a volunteer would care for a beached whale. He’s also taken to shouting “on your side” in my ear in an effort to move me into a position where my pipes are less compromised, and a couple of times I’ve woken to him bearing down on my face with a pillow.Although I’m not sure if this was an attempt to shut down my snoring or for an entirely different reason. He refused to elaborate when questioned.

I’ve always thought my snoring might be cute, like the sounds from a puppy when they’re curled up in their beds, or the gentle snuffles babies make. In my mind I was a kitten purring gently,my night-time sounds soothing to my better half who’d be happy he could hear his bedmate gently breathing, the odd, adorable snort punctuating the evening stillness.

Until I recorded myself. There is an app for everything, and I’ve discovered the one that records your overnight overtures. Not just snoring, but flatulence and teeth grinding. Fortunately I don’t grind – unless it’s on a dance floor *BANG* (see what I did there?) – and my wind is as you’d expect from a woman who prides herself on having a diet large on legumes. Not wanting to go into too much detail, dear readers, but I’m once or twice a night and I sound like a trumpet warming up. It’s quite lovely and musical.

But it was the snoring that shattered me and my illusions. The app analytics said I had 13 clips of snoring and I snored for 2 hours and 51 minutes. Surely this was a mistake? The next night I propped myself up on pillows as the app suggested this might reduce snoring, but had 15 clips and snored for 3 hours and 27 minutes. This pattern’s continued unabated for weeks and one thought keeps flooding my mind – how the hell have I stayed married?

Because I don’t sound like a cutesy feline, I sound like a feral warthog, a truck using air brakes, a pride of lions devouring a carcass, a bear emerging from a cave. At times it sounds like somebody has entered the room and is using a chainsaw or that the app has recorded a monster emerging from the deep.

This is what I am – a monster, a creature unknown to my daylight self. For once husband has talked something down or has undiagnosed hearing issues because I honestly don’t know how he manages a wink of sleep. I asked the kids if they’d noticed it. “Yes Mum, you sound like a T-Rex,” said one. “A jackhammer,” said another. “A horse on a racetrack,” from the younger. The eldest: “Why do you think I moved my bedroom upstairs? It’s like being at the zoo.”

So, this Christmas I’m giving my family a gift unlike anything they’ve ever received. In order for them to get uninterrupted shut eye, I’m going to say bye-bye and head off on a seven-day holiday by myself. Yes, it’s a great sacrifice and of course I’ll miss preparing meals, applying sunscreen, washing clothes, breaking up fights, hanging up towels, doing dishes and being the unpaid slave to a group of selfish and ungrateful people, but I’m prepared to make that sacrifice. Of course, they’ll miss me desperately but hey, you snooze, you lose. Right? AWW