At some point I fall asleep. I know this because I vividly remember the shock of waking. In the bed beside me I make out the pale patch that must be a man’s oval bald head. He’s lying on his back.
Silence. Then an almighty snort crackling with snot and stodgy phlegm that punctures the quiet of the dormitory like a pneumatic drill to the head. Silence again. Perhaps it was a one-off, perhaps it was a… SNORT. Long and foul and caustic catarrh breaking through. Clearly the five seconds of silence were merely the building of pressure, the lull before the bombardment, the gradual inhalation of a mass of air in the pockets of the nostrils searching for a way through and finally, gloriously, breaking through in a celebration of mucus and snotty detritus. That he didn’t wake himself up after the first snort is proof that he is either deeply deaf or dreaming of standing by the speakers in a drum’n’bass club.
An hour later, an hour spent wondering about the mechanics of my neighbour’s snoring, I drift off again only to be awoken at 3am by the party-goers returning to bed with all the subtlety of a freight train. I lug my bag on my back and head down to reception, making sure the door doesn’t creak on the way out.