Kevin Page: Trapped in a sick man's body

I just want to be left alone to see out my final hours in peace ... maybe with a nice lemon drink for my sore throat and Sky Sports on the telly. Photo / Getty Images

I'm sick. Right in the middle of summer.

I feel like excrement, if you know what I mean.

But because I'm the modern day equivalent of the Pony Express rider (the Northern Advocate must get through) I have dragged myself to my desk so you, dear reader, can have a giggle with your cornflakes.

In truth I have been banished from the chair in front of the TV because Mrs P says I have been making disgusting, throaty noises as I drift in and out of delirium.

In my defence I tried explaining I am really ill. My nose is blocked. Everything hurts. My head, my neck. My thumb can hardly press the buttons on the remote.

I'm sure I'm dying.

I just want to be left alone to see out my final hours in peace ... maybe with a nice lemon drink for my sore throat and Sky Sports on the telly.

Mrs P comes to my aid, not with the above, but with water, Panadol and a diagnosis.

She helpfully explains I do not have the "flu" as I weakly claim.

I have some buggy, virusy thing that I could have picked up from anywhere. If I had the real flu I would feel 100 times worse.

"No," she says. "What you have is Manflu."

I'm honking (blowing my nose) as she says it so it is a little difficult to pick up completely but I'm sure I detect a note of sarcasm in her voice.

My hackles rise.

Actually, I'm not too sure exactly what hackles are but when they rose they hurt. It was either that or my thick head turning suddenly to face her.

"But I'm uncomfortable and in pain," I whimpered, instantly regretting the comment.

Now the door was open and I knew she knew I knew that the "you don't know about pain till you've been through childbirth" retort could be loaded into the gun and fired back at any time.

I sat waiting to be cleaved in two by the comment no man has ever had a decent comeback on.

I mean we may think that hamstring we pulled playing footy or that thumb we smashed while hammering up fence palings was pretty painful but by all accounts it is nothing compared to the arrival of a baby.

Anyway, the boom was about to be lowered and I sat there, a dishevelled, shivering, ill jellyfish wishing it would just happen so I could just get back to being sick and dying.

But nothing happened.

Mrs P went all Julie Andrews (remember? The Sound of Music) on me, gave me a hug and said she'd make everything better.

I'm not sure, as I say I was a bit delirious, but she may have even started singing something like "these are a few of my favourite things".

Mind you I might have that bit confused with the arrival of the regular Briscoes brochure.

But I digress.

Later, as she delivered some more drugs and water I felt sufficiently improved (and brave) to ask what the difference was between Manflu and Womanflu.

"Women just keep going," she said. "We keep going to work. We keep doing the laundry, making tea, getting things done. We just don't stop and we deal with it. We get over it and feel better. Simple."

As I looked at the drugs in my hand the solution came in a flash. Forget the Panadol.

What I need is a sex change.

- Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to kevin.page@nzme.co.nz