Now I would earnestly like an outpouring of huge amounts of pity, please.

Sir has a cold – and I don’t mean the pity should be aimed necessarily exclusively at him. Oh I know, it’s lousy to have a cold – I’ve had one or two – hundred – in my life, so I know of what I speak. The sore throat, the runny nose, the alarming quantities of muck gathering in sinuses and making its way down to the chest, and the inevitable barking like a seal for a couple of weeks. Been there, done that, know it all.

But you see this is Sir’s Cold. This is no common virus-induced complaint, this is A Sir Cold.

I can attest to the fact that no one in the history of mankind has had a worse sore throat, a runnier nose, and the fact that he hasn’t drowned in his own outpourings of yuck just goes to show you the inner strength of the man.

We were chatting away the other day quite normally when the phone rang. By dint of caller ID, we could both see that it was our little friend – the Little Hot Tamale – calling from southern Missouri. Sir picked up the phone.

Remember when you were a kid and wanted immediate sympathy from your mother and a couple of days off school that you could by facing impending death-by-cold if you just laid it on a little thick, preferably warming the thermometer by the heater and inducing a 189 degree temperature? Hence (with profuse apologies to my editor whose spellcheck is just about to have a coronary):

“Ullo,” he muttered. “Eye hab an awfug cowd - by troat is so paidful, I gun harly bweathe.”

“Oh good God,” I was heard muttering across the kitchen. “It’s OK,” I yelled across the room, “he’s got a man cold.”

Well our Little Hot Tamale is not slow on the uptake and immediately knew what was going on.

Since we’ve been together, I swear he has internal radar to any impending ailment I might be brewing. Just as I’m about to mention that I have, let’s say, an upset tummy, he will immediately come down with dysentery and a possible case of Dengue fever. If I have a headache, he develops a tumor. If I have a hangnail, his arm was amputated by mistake – you know the drill. I just cannot one-up the man at all.

He’s now slurping on cherry flavored (ugh) lozenges while the pharmacist has recommended anything with menthol. He insists on drinking bucketsful of hot chocolate, despite the fact that he has been warned that milk will only increase the likelihood of self-drowning in internal yuck. He won’t sleep propped up on a million pillows – it’s not comfortable you see, so prefers to gurgle and splutter his way through the night only stagger downstairs in the morning, bemoaning “I didd-t sleep at all lasd nide, nod a wink.

No flowers please, send Kleenex. Oh sorry – Gleeneggs.

Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at .