our particular brand of madness

Well, the phlegm monster has taken up residence in my lungs and is keeping me awake at night, trudging up and down my chest and making me cough and hack.

Being ill is a strange state for blokes.

If we tell anyone about it, we're the stereotypical whiney-man, forever in the shadow of women who, by all accounts, have no trouble making sure the world doesn't destroy itself while they do the laundry and a full time job - and all with leprosy, plague, childbirth, menstrual cramps and creeping death; and not once do they complain about it to us weak men.
On the other hand, if we take a leaf from their book and just get through it because we have to, we fall into the trap of being non-communicative, closed-off, unresponsive and cold. Strikes me that that looks a lot like a double standard.

But let me tell you this...it's not happening to me. Jen is being very nice: attentive enough without being smothering and around enough that I don't feel abandoned. Which is quite the trick.

I don't really want to go to work tomorrow, but the effort of finding a replacement doesn't seem to be something I'm intersted in expending.

Ho hum. That's probably me done till September. Just letting you know.