For the past few days I have been at death’s door. Fortunately, the wife has been trying her best to pull me through. She appears to have succeeded, and I have turned the corner.
Sympathy? Forget it. Women just don’t understand man-flu. I
suppose that’s only natural. After all, they only have childbirth to cope with,
whereas man-flu is a thoroughly debilitating affliction which engenders misery,
discomfort, and indeed pain - and a need for kind words, soft tissues and lots
of Lucozade.
Instead, I get commands shouted from the other side of the bedroom
door, medicines and magazines hurled across the room, and toast and a tea tray pushed
across the floor at broom’s length just so she doesn’t catch anything.
Calls for the laptop have been ignored, requests for flowers
and grapes have gone unheard and the bedroom is a no-go zone apart from the disembodied
hand which appears round the door frame every few hours clutching an aerosol
can spraying Dettol disinfectant, pine scent and pesticides, including greenfly
killer and rat repellent – she’s taking
no chances.
The latest ‘accessory’ is a cat litter tray. Looks like I’m
barred from the bathroom as well!
So yes, man-flu is a seriously misunderstood ailment which
can only be appreciated by us blokes. Trying to explain to the wife that man-flu
is much worse than watching the complete Piers Morgan show DVD collection or
eating the mother-in-law’s solidified pasta and cremated meat balls is greeted
with complete disdain.
Anyway, the antibiotics are now taking effect, the Lucozade
is coursing through the veins and the wean has been bribed to fetch the laptop.
I’m back on line and life is once again back on the road. I’ll get stuff up to
date as quick as I can.
