You know the type. Groaning loudly every time they move as though their joints are on fire and drinking cups of steaming Lemsip every five minutes to demonstrate just how poorly they are.
Then there is the honking nose blowing and the weak smile of thanks when their long-suffering wives hand them a bowl of chicken soup that say it is appreciated, even if it is probably the last meal they will eat before they finally succumb.
And the reason I hate it is because it queers the pitch for men like me when we really are ill, like I am now.
I’ve been sneezing and spluttering for the last two days and Mrs P doesn’t understand how poorly I am thanks to those man flu wasters. I suppose I shall just have to suffer in silence.