WHY is it that when a man comes down with a cold or some such other minor ailment the end of the world is nigh?

Men are supposedly physically stronger than women and boast about that on a regular basis to the fairer sex's boredom.

So why is it that as soon as they have to reach for the tissues or vapour rub they turn into delicate little exotic orchids. Sorry my mistake - weeds.

Where is the testosterone-fuelled rambunctious vigour they reserve for their rugby and football endeavours when they come down with a cough?

It baffles me, it really does, and believe me I do not like to open any debate with so many unanswered questions.

You see, if I come down with some kind of viral/bacterial infection/condition (to be deleted as appropriate) I like to think I soldier on through, nausea and vomiting not withstanding. Even I'm not that hard.

But I wouldn't dream of taking a day off from the office beacuse of a cold for example.

By the way when a man has a cold it morphs into that scientifically known strain of malady we call "Manus Fluinus" (Man Flu to me and you).

This deadly disease can bring the most alpha of males down in one fell swoop, or so they would have us think when they take to their beds and wail weakly for chicken soup and nasal spray.

Of course in this instance it is the wives/girlfriends/sisters/daughters (again delete as appropriate) who will bear the brunt and have to cater to their husband's/boyfriend's/brother's/father's (see a pattern here?) every whim.

No pithy platitude will work on the ill man, they are all doomed to fail. Forget "pull yourself together" and "it's all in your head". The latter will be twisted and misconstrued to the extent that he thinks he now has a brain tumour that's on the verge of erupting into a haemorrage. A cough becomes lung cancer and tummy ache an ulcer and so on and so on ad nauseum - literally.

And woe betide if you yourself get ill because there will be no sympathy reserved there in that dark place. You WILL be expected to get up and see that tea is on the table and if you in turn ask him to hand over the decongestants you will be met with put-upon sighs and plenty of eye rolling as if it is YOU who are the hypochondriac's dream rather than THEM.

Alternatively the male of the species will suddenly be gripped by exactly the same symptons that you display, which results in the sort of one-upmanship that can only lead to major competitiveness, closely followed by the hurling of pillows.

You have a sore throat, he has bronchitis. You have a headache, he has a migraine. You feel sick, he has actually pebble-dashed the bathroom tiles. And so it goes on like those two old crones in that Harry Enfield sketch.

I say slip the fellas a placebo, claim it's the "Best Cure in the World Ever...Now That's What I Call Treatments 2008" and see them make a miracle' recovery hurrah!

Or failing this maybe Man Flu will eventually kill off men in one gory stroke, in spite of pitiful pleas to be spared. If not it'll be the wives/girlfriends/sisters/daughters that do it...