It was during our honeymoon that it dawned on me that my new husband and I were totally and irrevocably incompatible in the bedroom.
We were in the Highlands and had spent a magical evening sipping whisky by a crackling fire and generally basking in disgusting newlywed smugness. I looked at his lovely face and thought how lucky I was to have met him after years of dating some of London’s most cretinous creatures. Yet later that night I wanted to end his life.
It was the snoring. Dear God, the snoring.
Things got so bad at around 3am that he relented (after much sighing, shouting and eventually kicking — from me) and slept on the bathroom floor, deciding that the cold, hard marble was better than the sleepless purgatory we were both in.
Now, I am not a chaste, no-sharing-a-bed-before-marriage type of person, so of course I had noticed the snoring before. It was legendary among his friends; a deep nasal roar that was audible through walls and ceilings — nothing was impenetrable. Yet, I possessed the hopefulness of a newly in-love person. ‘I’ll get used to it,’ I thought. ‘I might even become fond of it,’ I mused like a desperate mad woman. But it was on our honeymoon, as it dawned on me that I had a lifetime of torturous nights ahead, that I finally snapped.
After that we tried everything. Nasal strips, extra-high pillows and a peculiar contraption called the ‘Snores topper Tongue Stabilising Device’ — essentially a huge plastic condom for the tongue. I got a laugh out of that one at least, but it did nothing to ease his deafening snores.
He began sleeping in the spare room mid-week so we’d both be fresh for work. The habit crept into the weekends and when we bought our first place there was no question that we would have separate bedrooms — permanently. It’s ideal. We each have our own space to retreat to at the end of the day, a little pocket of calm and the promise of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.
At the weekend, he brings me a cup of coffee in bed and we sit there (in my room — cleaner, nicer, better) ignoring each other and looking at our phones, like any other bed-sharing couple. The difference is we’re well-rested and pleased to see each other. Seeing Gus poke his head round my bedroom door to say good morning is always the best part of my day.
His snoring was legendary among his friends; a deep nasal roar that was audible through walls and ceilings — nothing was impenetrable
I expected people to be snide about our arrangement (perhaps they are behind my back), but for the first time in my life I do believe I ’m something of an inspiration. Friends often ask how they might best broach the subject of separate bedrooms with their partner. A mate of mine is about to move in with his boyfriend and is dreading the on-top-of-each-otherness of it all. We’re currently devising a strategy to gradually move him into the spare room.
Far from the death knell for a relationship, a little more distance and a little less being woken up by someone else’s snores/farts/sleep talking only makes the heart grow fonder.
