Yesterday provided me with the first real test of my “whatever’s wrong with me isn’t as hard as being pregnant” stance. I’ve had a good old dose of *man-flu* and, felling a little under the weather, I just had to have the day off work.

Now, I’m going to stick up for man-flu suffers around the globe here because OK, maybe I wasn’t going to die but I did actually feel unwell. I spent the day in front of the tele with a couple of DVD’s and the occasional “Murder She Wrote” episode. Mrs C on the other hand spent the day at work, soldiering on as usual.

By the time she got home, she was pretty knackered (apparently that can happen if you carry 2 extra stone around all day) and I wasn’t feeling much different.

As I watched her slowly nodding-off in the nursing chair, I thought “Hmm, now I’m faced with a choice. Do I wallow in self pity or get up and make us both tea?”.

Making tea won.

Now, I’m not after a medal but I thought I’d better give “looking after Mrs C even though I wanted to be looked after myself” a shot just one short day after I preached about it to others.

And she was pleased that I made her tea, which made me happy for a while then I wallowed in self pity in front of more TV.