Snoring and the boozy causes of snoring!

Wake at 6:30 with a dry mouth and a sore throat, even a little wine makes me snore. Breakfast on the last of the baguette, sliced and toasted, with honey and strong, black, Italian coffee. Wash, dress and drive to Cherry for nine again and then take the dogs on the Westwood. Today the weather is warm, but with a strong, gusty, westerly winds, we make our way through Newbegin Pits and onto the common towards Black Mill, and then back via Newbald pIts and Newbald wold, to the car. The dogs are returned to Cherry and then I drive to the Leisure centre, and arrive poolside for eleven, just as the last schoolchildren leave and thus obtain a free lane. As my fitness starts to return, so I increase the proportion of my strokes swum using butterfly, and swim 2000m in medleys, equally between each of the four strokes. Afterwards I eat lunch in the cafe and order fish, chips, salad and peas, and later wander in to town to look at snoring aids. It seems to me that the main issues are to keep the mouth shut and the nostrils open, but the strips and devices designed to do so are inordinately expensive. On arrival home I re-engineer a nose clip that I use to close my nostrils for swimming, to open my nostrils for sleeping by repositioning the supports from the inside to the outside of the device. This keeps my nostrils open and some paper tape over my mouth stops air entering that way, and thus prevents the soft palate from vibrating, hence snoring is stopped. I try this combination and it seems to answer pretty well, and I sleep until four. When I awake, a text from my son, Andrew, invites me to the driving range at Cherry for six. Of course I accept, and I arrive at Cherry golf club before Andrew and buy a basket of 100 balls for four pounds and then proceed to the driving range to fire them off. Andrew duly arrives ten minutes later, and we both fire balls down the range for the next hour. We look quite similar, except our builds are quite different, Andrew is 30 pounds heavier than I am, but our temperaments are totally dissimilar. Andrew will not play a game of golf until he has mastered the technique on the practice range. This bores the shit out of me, as I would much rather play the game, and pick it up as I go along. "Vivre la difference", as they say! Afterwards we adjourn to the pub for a couple of beers, and a chat about life in general. Despite his divorce, he seems to be handling things well, and apart from a sense of mild discontentment, seems otherwise to be ok. Back home make a supper of cheese, salami and pickled gherkins with rye bread, accompanied by more vin ordinaire, which I eat whilst watching Simon Schama go totally over the top, as he provides the commentary on Shakespeare's England on BBC. To bed at eleven.