Why is it when men get ill, it's five times worse than anything else in the world? No matter what pain, how hard or how difficult the trials, it can never compare to a man suffering from the common cold.

Girlpants is ill with man flu again. But doubly worse and much to my shame, now I am. And I'm acting even worse.

To say that having two drama queens on the sofa bewailing their woes and illness is enough for anyone would put it mildly. The cats have fled and the fish are all hanging around the only spot in the tank that is furthest away from us both, as either side of the sofa belows with nose blows that fog horns would be proud of. I can only attribute my chronic self woe down to being up the duff with blob. I'm currently weaker than a two day old pup. Whilst usually I can pop a couple of pills and then carry on with the day, whatever energy I would usually have must currently be sucked out of my by mini-hd, whilst I can take nothing to help me. Lemsip? Ask my midwife, and she will say yes. Ask the pharmacist as the other half did yesterday, and in order to cover their own backs, I apparently have to grin, take fluids and bear it. No paracetamol apparently, herbal remedies haven't been tested and are therefore not advised, no anti-histamines to sooth the nose... the list goes on. Take naddah.

So if this is the case, then I'm going to milk it for all of its worth as I may not get duffy duck again. This may be my only chance. So I may as well ham up it and see what I can get out of it. There's been no demands for exotic food stuffs, foot massages, or even breakfast in bed but in my weakened and faint state, I feel some of the moments may come on in a room very near me.

But then again, Girlpants has written a new motto above the front door...

Pregnant Not Disabled

There's nothing I like more that giving the brain a workout. Puzzles, suduko and if on the box, I like to pit my know hows against teams from Universitys around the country....

The latest series for the Professionals are back - not a long series but enough to pique my tastebuds once more.

Tonight it was the Ministry of Justice verses the Comedians who got dreadfully spanked on the bottom of knowledge by the civil service. And whilst I pride myself on being able to answer even 5% of the questions, tonight I got 2. Which was only slightly less than the comedians but re-emphasised the feeling that the blob is slowly sucking away my intelligence. But then again, it could have always have been me...

Am I the only one who thought that that the teams did actually sat one above the each other?

I haven't blogged for a while and with good reason. I hate lying and I have a couple of secrets that that been quite difficult to keep in. To add to that, I am absolutely crud at lying. My cheeks flame up, I lose eye contact and then ye olde Catholic guilt kicks in.

Needless to say, no booze has been involved with this secret. I apologise if we haven't been able to be in touch in person, but things have been hectic with work, deadlines and families. Meanwhile, Girlpants has insisted that I tell the world my inner thoughts via here to see how long it would take for the news to out - a wee bit of a social experiment as it were. So here I type. However, despite the salivating jaws, there are no tales of espionage, no blackmail, no affair. The secrets are quite simply this:

One

I was one year older two weeks ago. Thank you to all those who remembered. And no. For once, I did not get drunk.

Two

I found four, yes four! grey hairs on that blessed day which did not make me happy.

Three

That's right folks. It's a blob and it's invaded my space.

 Now Girlpants would like to claim that this now proves that a) he is no longer a girl and b) he wears trousers, not pants. But I beg to differ as we had a deal when we married - this was his job even if he dragged medical science kicking and screaming with him. And as far as I'm concerned, he's renegade on the deal. Meanwhile he's sipping cider whilst slowly my clothes are feeling ever so ever so uncomfortable, unable to eat "steak bleu", paté or runny eggs with a fry up. It's just not fair...

In the midst of this humble selflessness, I would also like to stand up and say "Hi. My name is Sim and I haven't drunk gin for several weeks." Actually longer than several weeks which just goes to prove my long standing assertion that should I ever stop drinking my favourite tipple, then the gin stocks would be put under threat and suffer. Ahh - to be proven right...

My new and rather homely doctor would prefer that I refer to this as a parasitical life form as opposed to blob but either would do I suppose. Apparently it's quite proficient in sucking the very nutrients, being and even the calcium from my bones. Nice. But that's okay - mini-hd will have years to more than make it up to me and I am already chalking up a number of chores for wee hands. Until then, I suppose Girlpants will have to continue to do the ironing.

You would think that the lovely, long, big box that was delivered to my office this morning may have been an early delivery of roses as the other half had accidently booked himself away on business for the entirety of valentines. This lovely box was delivered to my room, all securely wrapped and lo and behold, when I opened it I found…

A sodding grout gun! Har blooming har!

He’s dead.