Man flu it most certainly is though, he says, and I would certainly know it was if I was suffering as he was.

He makes growly, wounded bear sort of noises from time to time to emphasis the point.

So, putting my scepticism to one side, I set about being sympathetic and I do a good job of this, if I do say so myself.

It still seems a bit odd that he is up and about and I point out how lucky he is with his man flu not to be confined to bed unable to move, but I try and make him as comfortable as possible.

I have a day off from work but I crack on with the chores, smiling indulgently as he tries to forget his aches and pains with a marathon session on the PlayStation.

I make him cups of tea, buy him nice stuff for lunch, and even get him a DVD to watch as he says he doesn't think he can get up from the sofa and needs to rest up and recover.

I get to the end of the day pretty exhausted but content in the thought I have been thoughtful, caring wife.

Phone rings, and he picks it up. It is someone from five-a-side footie enquiring about his availability tonight.

"Yes mate, of course I can play. Nah, it's just a bit of a cold."

Is it just me?




Early one morning recently I had wet hair, was still in pyjamas, was writing something with deadline looming and was waiting for online supermarket shop to arrive.

Sons walk back from train station announcing trains cancelled and they need to be at school in ten minutes.

I put coat over PJs, leave computer on and sellotape note to front door urging Ocado man to please wait.

I screech car down drive and son asks why I am getting so 'stressy'.

Umm, let me see now...

sue.gilson@chiobserver.co.uk



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