Tuesday, 31 July 2007


My husband loves to help with the shopping. Oh lucky you, I hear you say. Well, yes. It certainly is a help when it comes to getting trolleys out of those impossible jams that the trolley boys delight in putting them in. You know, you heave and pull, and push, and wiggle, and jiggle, but the jolly trolley is stuck. Why, I’ve seen men who could be front row forwards who can’t extricate them.

I’m sure the trolley boys do it on purpose, and then sit out the back somewhere watching your struggle on the security television screens, chortling all the while. Beaten, you then move on to the next row, and give a tremendous heave to the first trolley, and out it comes like butter and you and the trolley propel backwards and knock over a frail little old lady on a walking stick. More chortling from the back room.

Anyway, my husband loves to push the trolley. He’s an expert at it. He’s an expert at it because he test drives fully three or four of the things before choosing the right one. I must admit, they usually go well whereas when I grab my trolley I usually get the one with the wonky wheel and the crushed cabbage leaf on the bottom of the basket area! He also loves to test drive and give out trolleys to any young attractive young things doing their shopping. He manfully heaves one out of the row, gives it a very experienced little push up and down and gives it to them. They smile. He thinks they’re smiling at him, and I won’t disillusion him, but I know that they’d smile at the Hunchback of Notre Dame if he got a trolley out of one of those trolley jams for them, and furthermore, a trolley with good straight wheels and no cabbage leaf!

Then, the shopping proper starts. Now, I’m a very fast shopper. I rarely pause, proceeding down the aisles blithely throwing stuff from the shelves over my shoulder to the trolley my husband is faithfully pushing along behind me. I only ever pause if its to consider whether a pack of six muffins or twelve muffins might be the way to go, and which lot looks the least fattening.

My husband used to participate in the actual choosing, but after constant five minute pauses while he considered whether 375gms at $4.61 was a better bargain than 450gms at $4.85, we stopped that. I think we stopped it after I screamed ‘Who gives a …!’, considerably startling nearby shoppers and nearly getting us thrown out of the store.

Then, at the end of about the second aisle, my arms full of things I’ve plucked with gay abandon from the shelves, there’s no trolley behind me. I look back, and there he is at the far end of the aisle leaning over the trolley, busily. I know immediately what is going on – the big RE-ARRANGE.

It’s a pity, and a problem, but my husband has a fetish about arranging the shopping into categories according to type, size, shape, and packaging. That’s small tins, large tins, plastic bottles, glass bottles, fresh fruit, vegetables. frozen stuff, cold stuff, cardboard packets – large and small of course, and then the bread, which somehow he totally overlooks and always gets squashed. Not to mind – at the check out he holds it up and exclaims over its misshapen shape and trots back to the bread aisle and swaps it. Poor shelf packing persons must wonder after each of our visits how they originally put out bread that was squashed almost flat.

Now, he doesn’t just repack the trolley once; oh no, he does it two, three times at least on our way around. And, as you can imagine, each repack becomes more complex than the last.

He helps himself to very little as we go along – oh, there are always the choccie biccies and the hard jubes that somehow appear at the checkout, and he gets all round eyed and innocent and has no idea where they came from, or who must have accidentally put them in our trolley. And there’s the dental floss – he also has a fetish about dental floss! Of all things! We must have enough to go round the world one and an eighth times, give or take a mile or two.

When we finally arrive at the check out there’s the incredibly exciting moment when I’m allowed to hold the trolley while he patrols up and down and finds the shortest queue. Shortest is not always best at the supermarket, and so he also judges who has the least amount of stuff in their trolley. I’m then summonsed by loud ‘psssst!’, and have to push the trolley to where he’s holding 'our' space. His ‘psssst’ has also attracted the attention of several other alert shoppers, and there’s a general jostle for positions. We haven’t come to blows with any other shopper yet, but its on the cards.

Then, another magic moment, I’m left to hold the trolley again while he patrols up and down again to see if he’s misjudged any queue and we’d be better off shifting again. Enough already!

Now, he takes over again. I’m not allowed to lift one thing out of the trolley. How wonderful, I hear you exclaim. No, its not because he’s being a total gentleman – it's because he wants to put the groceries out on the check out conveyor belt in the order he wants!

Once again we have small, large, fresh, not fresh, tins, bottles, packets, and of course the squashed bread. The poor check out person sometimes then is directed as to which items to put into bags together, and he then – get this! – places the packed bags back in the trolley for the walk out to the car in his own particular order! I kid you not!

At the car the putting of the bags into the boot takes so long I tend to generally sit in the car and read the first one hundred pages of James Joyce’s ‘Ulysses’, or knit a jumper. No, just kidding – I don’t knit. You see, the bags have to be in just the right order. And don’t get me started on the packing of the Esky with the cold things. I would say that a minimum of three re-packs of the Esky would be about standard, and to retain the little sanity I have I’ll draw a veil over that episode.

At home I’m not allowed to carry anything into the house. How nice, I hear you say. The packages are distributed on the kitchen table and on the floor and on the counters in a particular order.

Now, I’m sure you’ve all be waiting with bated breath for this bit – the putting away of the groceries. I can imagine that you must imagine that I must have the tidiest pantry in all of Christendom – well, I hate to disillusion you, but no. For you see, once the bags have been deposited in the kitchen my husband feels that his duties are over(!) and he goes and gets the paper and sits in the lounge and reads it. I do all the unpacking.

I am so sick of the whole shopping experience by now that I generally throw things into the pantry from a distance of about six feet, with not so gay abandon. Two days later I’m pawing through the shelves and asking plaintively ‘Where the hell is the cous cous?’

And do you know what he says – ‘It was in the trolley next to the spaghetti and the rice. When I put it in the car it was in the third bag which I placed at the right hand back of the boot. But, no, I don’t know where it is now. Can’t you find it?’
© Nelma Ward

Sunday, 29 July 2007


I don’t know how you feel about cloning, but I’m not too fussed. It sounds a bit un-natural, anti-nature, and downright scary.

Do we really want a woolly mammoth – and who has got a cage large enough to keep him in, I ask - and surely, once there are five thousand and one Wollombi pines, they won’t be so rare after all. Now, I’m not going to get into a discussion with you about it, it just hurts my head to think of it, but I think as far as the cloning thing goes, there’s a big fuss being made about the difficulties, and I have proved – scientific people, sit up and listen! – that its not that hard.

Of course, I have only the vaguest and haziest idea about cloning, but its something like resurrection – in the case of the mammoth anyway – isn’t it?

Well, I’ve made the first step I think, and that’s the big break through. But I find it scary, because its happening in my own bathroom. My bathroom is starting to take on a life of its own, as you’ll know if you read my blog ‘Foaming Will Occur’. Strange things are happening there, and I’m not too fussed about them either.

At the end of my bath is a little shelf section that was totally bare. Now we all know, girls, don’t we, that blank spaces are an anathema. If a space is blank, it should have something on it. So, on my nice white bare space, I carefully placed a glazed clay frog from China. He’s beautiful – I know hes a reptile type thing, and you’ll know I hate reptiles if you read my blog about the geckoes – but hes ‘dead’, for goodness sake, and therefore can’t harm me. He’s also a frog with attitude. He just has something about his stance – well, how would you describe a frog’s posture? – and the tilt of his head. But I digress.

I also have a black and white shell placed there - its most beautifully and geometrically marked, and goes so well with my angular and geometric black and white bathroom.

Then I have a small white glazed rectangular dish, with a little wooden frame in it, on which sits a gorgeous lavender soap, complete with embedded lavender seeds, and tied around with a raffia tie. Men, I know, if my husband is anything to judge by, with be throwing their hands in the air by this time. Raffia ties, indeed!

Then I have two dried white starfish, and a big plastic bottle of kid’s bubble bath, strawberry pink, and with a koala on the label!

See, all so, so tasteful. And all so, so necessary.

Well, it’s the star fish that are being cloned. One of them anyway. I don’t know what the laws are where these decorative star fish are gathered and prepared to be sold to people like me, who walk into a shop, and see a dead starfish, and say ‘Oh, I must have that.’ (I must have that, regardless of cost, that is). However, the laws must allow the collection of these things, and someone has worked out cleverly how to dry them and give them a sort of white powdery coating – very stylish.

Anyway, the other night I had a bath and as I got out I realised that somehow in my splashing and enthusiasm I had knocked one of the starfish into the bath. How long it had been there, lurking in the water behind me, I have no idea. If I had touched it we would have had a second bump in the ceiling to rival the one caused by the gecko’s dead foot (see my The Tale and Foot of the Gecko blog for an explanation as to how the first dent appeared).

I retrieved the star fish, did not think one more thing about it, until the next day I noticed that the creature had grown eyes! I kid you not! On his ‘head’ – that’s the top part of him, where there are five little bumps, or nodules – I noticed that two (two!) of the nodules had distinct dark pupils! Now, they weren’t just at randomly placed nodules, but on two adjacent nodules, and just where you would have drawn them, should you have been inspired to put a face on this long dead creature.

The eyes sort of seemed to look at me, a bit myopically, as I guess things from under the water usually view the world. Hmmmmm, I said to myself, and very wisely told no one.

The next day the eyes seemed even more intent, and furthermore, the dusty white coating, with which he had been imbued prior to sale, had gone, and he was a soft golden sandy colour. Hmmm, hmmm, I said.

But, the following day he was even darker. He’s starting to come back to life, I thought. To myself. I don’t think he’s like one of those apparently dead frogs they find in a hole in a tree that has long grown over, and then suddenly the frog revives, or even like those fish that live in the sand, and burst into life when the rains come. Oh no, this fellow had been dried, and treated, and probably fumigated as he came through Customs, and had lain dormant for ever so long. He was well and truly – well – DEAD.

Not any more. You see I know this, because the following day I found he had edged closer to the other starfish on my bathroom shelf. The other starfish is a different species, quite obviously, with a very tiny ‘head’, and long thin elegant legs. Still, I guess there’s comfort in something that looks remotely like you do.

I can tell you’re snickering – a very nasty habit – but I swear its true. Although, I do confess, nothing further has happened, and the little starfish still sits there, near the Chinese frog and the koala bubble bath, looking a little bemused and a bit lost. However, I’m sure all the scientists need to do now is find that next magical step, or add something to the bath water, or whatever, and the mysteries of cloning will be all explained. I mean, the proof is there – right in my bathroom.

© Nelma Ward

Friday, 20 July 2007


I rang a man about my problem. ‘I have bats in my trees’, I stated. I could almost hear him substituting ‘belfry’ for ‘trees’.

‘Not bats’, he said. ‘Flying foxes’.

Well, maybe. I live in Queensland and the things in my tree apparently are flying foxes. Because of the drought they are short of food, and are flying far and wide in search of something to eat. Now, I don’t know what it is that they are eating around here, but I do know that they must have found something, because they are spreading their droppings far and wide – on the walls of our house, on the windows, on the paving, on our car, and I should imagine, on the roof, from whence runs the very rare rain water to go into our tank for us to drink. Yuk!

These flying foxes smell. They smell awfully. The man I spoke to said that they are a very important part of our ecology – yes, I know, they pollinate things and so on – I just want them to go and do their ecological duties somewhere else.

He asked me what sort of trees they were in – pepperinas, I answered. ‘Oh, you should cut those down – they’re not natives’, he blithely replied. Now, for a start, the trees are not strictly speaking mine – they belong to our neighbour, but are close to our back fence, and so for many, many years have provided a very nice backdrop to our garden. I have often said ‘If those trees go, so do I’, so I don’t really think he knows what a drastic step he was suggesting.

It beats me how those creatures get any sleep though. Its winter and we’ve have winter winds. Some days the tops of those trees sway and wave in the winter winds like the crows nest on a sailing ship at sea in a very, very bad storm. Its enough to make you slightly queasy if you watch for long enough. And those little critters hang upside down by their toes, waving wildly back and forth and soundly sleep!

Another good suggestion by the same helpful gentleman was to put tinsel in the trees, as apparently flying foxes don’t like bright light. Now who, I ask you, is going to climb a neighbour’s brittle old pepperina and hang tinsel in the wind blown branches, and then when the flying foxes are hopefully gone, who is going to climb up again to un-decorate the trees!

I thought a bright light might be the answer, so I flashed a mirror at them. I hope someone reading this doesn’t report me and I go to jail for that! The jolly flying foxes seem to have more rights that I do. I’m not allowed to make a loud noise to frighten them either, but when I found myself with two metal objects in my hand and I accidentally banged them together, accidentally four or five times, the flying foxes just made a lazy circle in the sky and re-landed, folded up their wings, and went back to sleep. The bright light had no effect either – they just opened their eyes, looked at me, and closed their eyes and went back to sleep again.

‘How many have you got?’ he asked. I think he thought I was the panicky sort of person who would then say ‘Oh, one or two, at least’. No, I gave him a bit of a shock and said thirty to forty. I gave myself a bit of a shock when I first discovered them too, I can tell you.

I was checking the branches of our jacaranda tree to see if the rosellas, lorikeets and parrots had eaten the seed bell I put in the tree for them, when something scrabbled up the branch as fast as it could go. ‘A bat, a bat’, I screamed, and after I had settled down a bit, I got my camera and took a photo of them. At that stage I was pretty perturbed because there were all of six or eight of them. The word has obviously got out because a whole lot more have since moved in.

The novelty of having flying foxes has long worn off now. I wouldn’t mind so much if they didn’t smell so much, if they didn’t drop their droppings all over all my things, and if they showed any signs of moving on. Native animals are great – we’ve had a selection in our yard over the years. Echidnas, tortoises, blue tongues, one snake, and a kangaroo. We have had every sort of bird too – including a family of owls who sat sleepily in the tree all day long, and flew away at night. A bit like the bats. But the owls didn’t outstay their welcome. A few days and they were gone.

The colony – for that’s what I call it when telling everyone about my problem – seems to have no intention of moving on.

I even stood under the trees the other day, skipping agilely out of the way of as droppings landed, and spoke to them nicely. ‘Please’, I said in a very reasonable tone of voice, ‘Please, can you go somewhere else? I don’t want you here.’

So yes, when you start to talk to animals like that, you probably can be described as having something in your belfry.

And anyway, I Googled them –flying foxes are a species of bat. So there!
© Nelma Ward

Sunday, 8 July 2007


I have a spa bath. N-yah-hah! N-yah-hah! No, that was nasty of me. I'm sorry you don't have one too.
However, like all things that retain their new gleam for a while mine has started to look as if a bit of elbow grease wouldn’t go astray.
I scoured the supermarket shelves, and found the very product. So today I undertook the task. How easy could it be?
Following instructions I filled the bath with cold water to just above the jets. Fine so far. Next instruction was to pour 50mls of this super duper liquid in. 50mls? Hmmmm. How to measure that? I didn’t want to use a medicine glass as I was a little worried that the toxic (and no doubt spa bath cleaner is toxic) residue might kill the next person who was taking medicine from the glass, hopeful of a cure.
So I poured a bit in. Then a bit more. Well, more has to be better, I figure. Now this is where I fell down. I should have read the next bit, rather than skipping to the following step which said, turn all jets on for five minutes, and turn the exhaust fan on as well. That meant pressing the button for the jets on the floor of the spa, and the button for the side jets, and clicking the switch for the overhead fan. Easy.
I wandered out to read the Sunday paper, and wait for the five minutes to pass. However, of course I had to go back and have a look. I must admit I got quite a fright when I did!
Foam was generating itself at a frantic rate, rising up a full foot and more above the bath, climbing the tiled walls, and spilling out onto the floor and making its way across the floor tiles towards the door.
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Now I didn’t want to turn it off – I wasn’t about to waste all that water, nor the obviously more than 50mls of spa bath cleaning stuff. So I cleverly scooped up armfuls of foam and hurled them in the general direction of the basin. However, in no time at all it seemed, the basin was full with a peak of white thick suds rising like some crazy giant sized ice cream sundae.
I really needed a bucket, but where to put the suds? The window has an insect screen, so I couldn’t chuck bucketfuls out there. At a complete loss, and watching more and more foam rise and rise, I did what anyone would do, and went in search of my camera.
I took a shot just to prove it had happened. I don’t know why my family all seem to think I tend to exaggerate!
At the end of the seemingly never ending five minutes, I groped under the foam and located the two buttons to turn the jets off. I swear the foam still seemed to grow.
I then consulted the side of the bottle for further instructions. That’s when I read the bit that said, after adding 50mls, ‘Foaming may occur’. You’re telling me!
The next bit was to let the water out of the bath. Now it was a cold winter morning, the bathroom is tiled and therefore even colder than the rest of the house, I could barely see the bath, let alone find the plug, and with all the suds, I had to lean into the froth, jumper sleeve pushed up as far as it would go, and grope for the plug. During this little exercise I realised that the coldness around my ankles was the foam that lay a good six inches deep on the floor seeping into my shoes. I bravely held my breath, plunged my face into the toxic suds, and found the plug. Standing up I found I had a coating of suds on my, er, chest area, as well as a wet jumper sleeve.
The water slowly drained out of the bath. I knew this from hearing it, as I couldn’t see it for the froth and bubble. The water was gone, but the suds lived on. I once again did what any sensible person would do, and went away!
Finally I was brave enough to return and found the suds has somewhat dispersed, and the big clean up was now required. This took paper towels, cloths, a mop, a bucket, and a heap of swearing. Why, I swear I got foam out of corners of that bathroom that I didn't even know existed!
The bath looks pretty clean, and I’m considering writing to the manufacturers to tell them that, if the bit they put in this stuff isn’t toxic, they should patent it for bubble bath manufacture. Its certainly the most effective part of their cleaner – in fact, I’ve never seen a clearer representation of advertising hype. ‘Foaming may occur’ – all I want them to do is change that to ‘Foaming WILL occur – take cover’.

© Nelma Ward

Saturday, 7 July 2007


Today I had a rather rare ‘Loud Music Day’. You know what I mean, some days you just have to turn it right up.
However, in this case it could have been pretty embarrassing, as it wasn’t the type of music you’d usually crank up – it was Strauss Waltzes. I know, I know! What was I doing with Strauss Waltzes – well, for a start the cd was extra extra cheap, and I have a nostalgic attachment to them, as our local picture theatre in a little country town where I grew up played them at interval, and listening to them always takes to back to that dusty hall, and those canvas seats, and the westerns, and the submarine movies (‘pictures’, we called them then, before we became sophisticated) and the cartoons and the newsreels. And there were two movies, which is why there was an interval. Ah, Saturday night at the pictures – what a treat!
Also, this was the first time I’d played that cd, so I wanted to hear the whole thing, and I also wanted to do things all over the house, so up went the volume and out boomed Mr Strauss. What if someone had come to the door? Now, don’t misunderstand – I just love classical music, and own a lot of it, and play it a lot, but somehow the lilting strains of a waltz did not strike me as being very cool, which is a demeanour I’d like to present to anyone knocking on my door.
Its odd that I can stand loud music, as I’m allergic to loud noise I think. Its partly been bought on by the fact that every time I walk out of the room where the tv is playing, I walk back in to find the volume has been turned up several notches. This is to compensate for my husband’s fast developing deafness – which he of course denies. I, on the other hand, have perfectly good hearing.
It’s a wonder that I have, because when my children were teenagers, they played music constantly, loudly, and in opposition to each other. Talk about duelling banjos – we had duelling cassette players in our house. One belting out this, and other belting out that, and the aforesaid husband listening to the races (and is there any noise more annoying than a race caller calling a race, I ask you – in the whole world, I mean?) on both the radio and the television. I tell you, my good hearing is an absolute miracle! Also, I love Queen, and Pink Floyd, but not for the seventy-sixth time in the same day!
I found a piece of paper recently that had written on it a bet between myself, the obviously long suffering mother, and my then maybe sixteen year old daughter – the details were that me, the mother, bet that she, the daughter, would not be playing music CONSTANTLY and LOUDLY all day ten years after she was married. Its roughly twenty years since we made that bet, and I sent her a copy of it, and she actually admitted that yes, I had won. Ah, maturity!
I listed to the Choir of Hard Knocks singing Flame Tree the other day, which in my humble opinion is one of the all time great Australian songs –I just love that song, and what great memories of the time my kids were living at home it brings back to me. I mentioned this to someone the other day, and they remarked that they liked it too, and should really buy that cd, but wondered why there weren’t more Christmas songs on it.
What Christmas song is on it, I asked. Hallelujah, the person replied. I kept an admirably straight face, and I asked why they thought it was a Christmas song, and hadn’t they listened to the actual words? Well, they replied, they keep saying Hallelujah, and that’s Christmassy, isn’t it?
Which reminded me again of my husband’s fast encroaching deafness – we love going to the movies – he picks what we see this time, and I pick the next time. A while ago it was my pick, and he suddenly asked me if we were going to see ‘Mary Ann Turner’? I thought hard – I am pretty sure I have no acquaintances called Mary Ann Turner. Who did he mean?
Finally – finally – we worked it out – were we going to see that movie ‘Marie Antoinette!’ I know my French is not good, in fact, non-existent, but I thought I should have been able to adequately pronounce that, so its obviously the deafness thing again.
Anyway, funnily enough, whenever I have a Loud Music Day, who complains – why, he does!
Next time my kids are home for a weekend, I’m going to test them out – I’m going to turn on some loud music, and the tv, and see if they’ll complain. They probably will because our son was here a little while ago, and I actually heard him say to his father, ‘Turn that damn tv down’. Two mature kids, how lucky is that!
What? I can’t hear you?

© Nelma Ward

Sunday, 1 July 2007


You know that old saying – ‘Men! Can’t live with them – can’t live without them!’ Well, what’s your position if you live with a snorer?
Hands up all who sleep beside a person who snores? Those of you men who put your hand up, go and stand in the corner and look shame faced – we all know that ladies do not snore!
Oh, the agonies of sleeping with a snorer! I push him, I turn him, I knee him in the leg – then he wakes up next morning and says with some puzzlement, ‘My thigh is so sore, I don’t know what I’ve done to it!’
And the remedies people suggest! All I can say is get real! ‘Turn snorer over’ – okay, but he snores again as soon as he settles; ‘Yell loudly “You’re snoring!” ’ – okay, but he only mutters and starts up again; do the aforesaid knee-ing (this is my remedy; not about to be patented, as it doesn’t work!) – he only moans piteously between snores.
I wonder just how the human body can make such a noise? I have actually heard our windows rattle! One hot summer night I heard the neighbours slam their windows shut – obviously the sound had penetrated even THEIR house.
And its no good shifting to another room. Family members home for the weekend have cried out from those other rooms, ‘For God’s sake, shut up – you’re snoring!’ Anyway, if you’re on site, you can do the pushing, yelling and knee-ing in your vain attempt to make the noise STOP.
Nowadays when I say ‘You’re snoring!’ he replies ‘So?’ There’s really no answer to that! Then the next day he’s got the nerve to tell you he got no sleep because you kept waking him up to tell him he was snoring. And you’re the one who has seen one o’clock, two o’clock and three o’clock roll past without even shutting your eyes.
And whose brilliant idea was that to sew a tennis ball onto the back of the pyjamas? Really! For a start can you just picture the bright yellow tennis ball sewn on to jamas? Those of you who do sew may be able to tell me how you’d actually sew a tennis ball onto anything! And what about the said jamas in the wash? Or in the ironing (yes, I’m the person who irons even jamas!)? (See ‘Un-Cycling’ on this blog site). Crazy idea! (Sewing said ball on, not ironing jamas!)
I don’t think there’s a solution, do you? Short of holding a pillow over the snorer’s face. I’ve been tempted, I can tell you, but I know forensic science is a bit too good these days, and I’d be found out. And the judge you’d probably come up in front of most likely would be a snorer too with absolutely no sympathy for your plight.
We bought a clock radio which also plays cd’s. What a clever object! That, I had hoped, would drown out the snoring – what a joke! Now not only do I have the snoring, but I also have to listen to Moon River for the forty-sixth time during the night.
And the truly dedicated snorer not only snores in bed. They snore in buses, friend’s houses, waiting rooms and theatres– I once saw a man sitting in front of my snorer at the cinema jump a full six inches when my husband suddenly in one of the quiet bits gave forth a deafening snore. And when you shake them to wake them up, they mutter and grumble and make even more noise – worse than someone rattling their chip packet. On this particular occasion my snorer cleverly got up just before the film finished and made his way out of the theatre, leaving me to take the blame when the man in front turned around and looked me up and down. I could almost see him wondering how on earth such a noise had emanated from this woman.
We once went with friends to see the famous mime artist Marcel Marceau – my friend’s husband suddenly started snoring! Now, you won’t get a performance quieter than a mime show, so we all quickly reacted to push him, shove him, shake him to stop him, then we all giggled, then we all felt embarrassed, whereas the snorer just sat up and looked around, innocent as a new born baby. And had the hide to say later, ‘Wasn’t that great? Enjoyed every moment of it!’
I’ve even spoken to my doctor about this problem. He came up with all sorts of good suggestions – don’t let him sleep on his back – turn him over; and even - had I thought of sewing a tennis…. This is a man doctor, of course.
Recently we were visited by a young mum and her two charming little girls. She and I were busy with a project she was assisting me with, and my husband took the little ones to the lounge room and put a children’s dvd on for them. Now, these little girls had never met my husband before in their life, and they were very polite and sweet little girls, but in no time at all they were shouting, as only females can, ‘Be quiet, you’re snoring. We can’t hear the movie’. Out of the mouths of babes!
He’s tried some of those things that are suggested in magazines every now and then – plugs, mouth guards and so on. Who designs these things? People who have never slept with a person who can truly snore I bet. I can tell you, don’t waste your money – they just don’t work. In fact some of them even distort the sound of the snore into something even worse!
Occasionally there’s an article in the paper about the damage snoring can do to a person’s health, (the snorer of course, but really, what about us snorees?) I usually read these out loud to my snorer, using the same tone of voice as you use when you’ve come across a really interesting bit like ‘Two headed sheep born’ or ‘Man wins Lotto then falls six storeys and survives’. He listens (well, I think he does – its hard to tell with men sometimes), mutters something and returns to his part of the paper. In one ear and out the other!
So, my suggestion is that we change that saying about men to read ‘Men! Can’t live with them. The end!’ I think that would look quite effective cross stitched onto a pillow, if that’s you thing, or as a wall hanging, or even as a tattoo – if you want to know more about tattoos you should look at my friend Michelle’s blog site – expatatior.blogspot/com.
But apart from that, if you have a suggestion for me as to how to stop a dedicated, long term, practiced snorer from snoring, please let me know – you’ll recognise me, I’m the one who looks haggard and drawn from lack of sleep, and I limp a little due to the continual contact of my knee with thigh.

© Nelma Ward