My nose is currently like an overflow system.
I have caught my winter cold and my bedside table holds First Defence, which is squirted up the nostrils every four hours in an attempt to restrict the severity of the germ attack, a jar of Vaseline used liberally to stop said nostrils becoming red and shiny and scaring children, packets of tissues for mopping up, and a toilet roll in case the deluge attains Noah proportions.
It was inevitable that I fall victim. My grand-daughter had the cold first, followed by my daughter and then my son-in-law.
My wife got it but never told anybody, because she’s like that.
It’s been said before that men get flu and women get on with it. Thank goodness it’s true.
Maria continued doing what ladies do without fuss: joining her chums in town for lunch, cleaning the bathroom, mending the washing machine, looking after our grand-daughter, and she was still ready before me when we went to the pub. Changed and freshly made up and tapping her toe impatiently. She remained cheery and bright.
I cannot help but be glum.
I thought I’d avoided the affliction but those germs were not going to let a soft touch like me get away with it and they came sneaking in when I wasn’t looking.
The First Defence has become a last resort as I heroically battle against the odds but I have noticed that the symptoms are not quite so severe if I lay down. Say, on the sofa. In front of the television. Which is where I’m headed now this column is finished.
Well, it’s not my fault I’m a man.
