Wife’s snoring row tactics have left me breathless

IHAVE been branded miserable for failing to see the funny side of my wife’s tape of my snoring.

She captured the laboured breathing as “proof” following a dispute of years standing over whether I snore.

I woke to discover she’d switched to the spare room, but believed I’d simply cried out the name of former Baywatch babe Pamela Anderson in my sleep.

I have, for the last 30 years, had a reoccurring erotic dream involving Pamela. She saves me from drowning, drags me onto the golden sand, passionately gives me the kiss of life, then, at the very moment of coupling, spots my puce boxer shorts emblazoned with the legend, “I’ve been to Didcot owl sanctuary” and scarpers.

The recording is not proof, far from it. It sounds like something – perhaps a walrus – either rutting or dying. It has, I believe, been gleaned from a wildlife documentary.

If it is kosher, then I’m concerned my wife can stand over my prone body with a live iPad in her hand for 15 minutes. Sooner or later, the penny will drop that she can do the same with a kitchen knife.

Last night the phone rang. “Hi, it’s Mavis,” trilled the clipped, upperclass voice down the phone, “is Julie there, I just wondered if she could send me the link to your frightfully funny snoring clip. I think the ladies at Wednesday’s Women’s Institute

Zoom meeting will love it.

“The video of Brenda’s husband being bitten by a cobra in Goa went down a storm.”

“Actually, Mavis,” I lied, “we’ve just discovered the laboured breathing is caused by a growth. I have only months, perhaps weeks, to live.”

“You poor darling,” she gushed, “but I don’t think that diminishes the recording’s comic value. If Julie would be a darling and send me the...”

I slammed the phone down.