nunoncastors

I’ve been ill since the weekend and it’s set me thinking that men have an arse backwards approach to illness. At the moment I have what could be called man flu. Obviously I’m convinced that it’s SARS or bubonic plague but in truth I have a cold, I ache a bit and most of all, I whinge. Whinging is a major part of man flu. Indeed the milder the cold the greater the amount of whinging. This is what set me thinking about the male approach to illness.

Around this time last year I fractured my arm skiing. Despite this I put off having it looked at for a day and then carried on skiing without poles after it had been put in a cast. As I’m not a competent skier I proceeded to fall on this wrist a further dozen times but barely said a word. Sunday morning when I woke up with a snotty nose I immediately broadcast this fact to the whole house and then continued to remind people at regular intervals that, “I’m ill.” This, of course, was accompanied by a weak cough and a sigh.

So, shattered bone isn’t an issue but a mild cold may as well herald the coming of the apocalypse.

And it’s the same for all men. The amount of complaining is inversely proportional to the extent of the problem. A scratch will require sufficient bandage to embalm a mummy but a severed finger barely requires an Elastoplast. Break a man’s ribs and he’ll insist he’s ok to go down the pub to watch the football but stub his toe and he’ll never walk again. I don’t understand it. I do it, but I don’t understand it.

Incidentally, my right eye has developed a slight twitch. I’m hoping this is due to my recent poor diet, too much booze and not enough sleep but it could be that I have some previously unknown malady that will destroy us all.

Oh, and just in case you didn’t know, I’m ill. *cough* *sigh*