“Yes, but I snore.” I wailed pathetically.
The previous Christmas I had shared a hotel room with H and she had ended up sleeping in the bath. My concern was not unfounded. My affliction was stress related and I had been reliably informed that I could strip wallpaper by sheer decibel power. After a dozen or so double gins in the face of years of abstinence I had retired the night of the Christmas ‘do’ to our shared hotel room stone cold sober and obviously deeply stressed about it.
“That’s alright I’ll get some earplugs.” H was not going to be shaken from her dream that easily.
A few weeks later I stopped prevaricating and caved in. My daughter was almost eighteen and my son, at fifteen, had discovered that self-sufficient Utopia requiring only a pot noodle and a guitar. I had run out of excuses. And besides, when did anything I ever plan actually ever happen?