Kit has been an easy baby who's never far from laughter, but a cold is now preparing him for a lifetime of trying to elicit sympathy for minor ailments.
Women have long mocked the male propensity for being pathetic in the face of the sniffles. Girls get colds, men get flu and are only fit to lie on the sofa, groaning, with perhaps some Carling Cup highlights and a copy of Razzle.
"Man flu" they call it, to differentiate it from actual flu and mock our feeble resistance to the life-sapping symptoms. Little do they understand how we suffer.
That's why I renamed Man Flu, The Widow Maker, so girls would automatically say "Poor you" and offer me a Lemsip and maybe a fried egg sandwich.
That's another thing that sees sympathy drain away – the surge of appetite that gives the impression that everything is alright and that in fact we might be having a great big laugh. But as my mate, Andy, says: "Feed a cold, feed a fever."
Kit is currently keeping us both awake at night, plus a few neighbours, acting like it's worst thing to ever happen to him. But that's because it is.
Men flop about in much the same way because it's also the worst thing to happen to us, keeping us from our normal pursuit of having a good time.
When I mention to Spud that I feel the foul stench of The Widow Maker's breath upon me, she is wont to bring up the 42 hours of labour she endured to produce our son. Fair enough. That makes it one-all then (I say out of earshot).
Naturally, Kit has passed on his cold to us, so now I must sign off from my death bed and see what's in the fridge.
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