London - Snoregate dominated half-term for us. It ruined what I hoped would be peaceful, relaxed holiday mornings and filled our evenings with epic sessions of sibling bickering.
Anyone who has lived through a family feud (Liam and Noel Gallagher, Cain and Abel, JR and Bobby Ewing) will sympathise.
Every day the non-warring Candys were subjected to a relentless courtroom-style debate between the two eldest girls, aged 12 and 11, about the allegedly unbearable noise of the younger one’s snoring, as they shared a bedroom in our Cornish holiday cottage.
God it was torturous to listen to (the bickering, not the snoring). Despite weighing less than a pencil, and being pretty much the same shape, Gracie-in-the-middle is apparently capable of ‘making bedroom walls move’ with her nasal noises.
‘It’s like listening to a cement lorry all night,’ the oldest one roared with indignation every breakfast. ‘I cannot take any more,’ she added, rejecting my offer of ear plugs.
Her outrage is ridiculously out of proportion to the crime but this is to be expected. As any mom knows, any ‘war of sisters’ is so fierce an end is never in sight. No resolution can be reached, given the illogical nature of any and every argument.
‘She couldn’t snore if she couldn’t breathe,’ my eldest retorted during one of the blazing volleys.
‘That’s not very nice,’ said our smallest child, Mabel, who’s three, as she listened in, helpfully thrusting her plastic microphone at the defendants as they squabbled.
Gracie’s snoring, which no one else can hear, may I add, is deliberate and unforgivable in the eyes of the eldest, punishable only with decapitation (I don’t exaggerate).
‘This is exhausting,’ I moan to Mr Candy, who grew up one of four and patiently points out that all siblings argue.
But I think my girls’ ongoing fury with each other has gone up a notch lately, infused with an extra ingredient: angry pre-teen hormones.
It’s a heady mixture, one I had not anticipated and am not ready for. The snoring, you see, is largely irrelevant in this giant battle of wills. Snoregate is a symbol for sisterly fury.
You could substitute any words before ‘gate’ - Rice Krispies (who gets to pour first), car seat (who sits where), biscuit (I don’t know who ate the older one’s secret supply but I have instructed President Obama to investigate as a matter of urgency).
How long is this going to last, people? It’s like mediating between radical religious sects. Neither side will give and both have a set of beliefs about the other which are sillier than the rules of a televisionpanel game.
On Wednesday, the eldest burst into my bedroom holding my phone, a triumphant look on her face.
‘Listen, I recorded her last night,’ she says with the glee of someone who has just cracked the Enigma code. I wish she was as zealous with her homework.
She presses play and I can just about hear what sounds like a small mouse sneezing. ‘I rest my case,’ she adds.
In the doorway the culprit stands, arms crossed. ‘How do you know it was me?’ she retorts. ‘I can’t live like this any more. I am being stalked. It’s unbearable.’
‘You stayed up to record her?’ I ask the eldest incredulously. ‘Yes,’ she replies. ‘Yes I did. I needed proof.’
I can see she hasn’t thought this through, because I have already rejected the decapitation idea. What punishment does she anticipate?
Later, I wonder if I should volunteer them for something I read about in the papers. ‘Why don’t we put them on the list for that one-way research trip to Mars,’ I suggest to Mr Candy, ‘then snoring will be the least of their worries.’
Mr Candy sighs. ‘That won’t stop them. They’ll just argue about something else. Maybe you should reverse your thinking,’ he suggests, as I am compiling an alphabetical list of other people I would volunteer for the space voyage.
Clever. Where do you sign up and what does one pack for the Red Planet?
Lorraine Candy is editor-in-chief of Elle magazine.
Daily Mail