Kayt Turner: 'I knew how bad it was before we married – love is not only blind, it is deaf too'

THERE are creatures in Doctor Who called The Hath. They have a human body and a fish head. They are able to breathe because they have a little water cylinder attached to their mouths and when they speak they kind of gurgle and burble. You may wonder: "What fabulous and ingenious mind was able to create something like that?" I think: "My goodness, the scriptwriters have heard Mr Turner snore."

Every night, without fail. What starts as a low rumble gradually builds to a deafening crescendo. How to describe the noise? If you were to cross a road drill with a drainage pump and then pop in the sound of a little two-stroke engine. In first gear. Going up a hill. That would be close.

I've tried everything to get it to stop. A sharp elbow in the ribs, a well-placed kick here and there. Pinching his nose. The poor soul wakes up covered in bruises with no idea of how they came about. I've tried rolling him over and even – on a suggestion from a fellow sufferer – just quietly told him to stop. That was surprisingly effective. Well, for about 10 minutes. Which was, I have to say, among my better results.

Living with a snorer is not something that anyone should take on lightly. Obviously I was aware of how bad it was before we got married (before you start hyperventilating, Mother, let me assure you that his snoring is so loud that I could hear it through my bedroom wall) but love is not only blind, it is occasionally deaf too.

Mr Turner is a particular and peculiar kind of snorer. The volume and velocity build and build until suddenly – he stops dead. Almost literally. For the first few months I was utterly convinced that he had breathed his last. I would just be holding the mirror to his nose when a earth-moving snort would announce the resumption of, er, usual service. It was almost a relief to have to put my earmuffs on again.

I know that I am not alone. There are millions of us out there suffering in – well, certainly not silence. Friends have recommended sprays, gels and even tennis balls. (I think you're just meant to keep throwing them at the snorer until they stop.) But none of this is of any use when confronted with someone who doesn't actually believe they have a problem. Truth be told, of course, they don't. It's the poor bugger who has to sleep with them who has the problem.

Mr Turner thought I was simply exaggerating. Making a mountain out of a molehill. Everyone snores a little, apparently. I was just being hypersensitive. That was until an enforced overnight stay after a family wedding (too much wine, not enough trains) and he ended up having to share a room with my wee brother. The noises that came from my sibling truly weren't human. He gasped, he snorted, he gurgled. He produced otherworldly sounds that came up from his boots and made the furniture shake. We all know this because the entire hotel corridor was awakened by the noise.

The sight of Mr Turner ashen-faced and bleary-eyed in the morning was highly amusing. Especially when my brother bounded down to breakfast declaring he'd had his best night's sleep in years.

I'm here to tell you, however, that I have finally found a foolproof cure. Extreme, maybe, but it works. Take one large pillow, clamp firmly over the nose and mouth of the offender. Voila! Silence.