Keith, in time-honoured man-flu tradition, is sicker than the rest of us. Me, every time I bend over I feel like a horse just kicked me in the head. Which is bad, considering I spend all day with two people the size of Ewoks.
We've been discussing the psychological dynamics of sickness and relationships. My theory is that you nurse your ailing partner the way you wish they treated you when you're sick.
I like to sink a little into the feather-soft pillow of my misery. Ideally, I think I'd like to be be delivered of comfort food like toast with the crusts cut off and soft boiled eggs. Quiet voices. Cool hands on my forehead. A respectful creeping in and out of my presence.
So this is how I tend to treat Keith.
He, on the other hand, rages against the power of illness. He likes to deny it, to ignore it and to be finished with it as soon as possible, so he can return to normal programming.
This means that I'm lucky to get a cup of tea... and I'll be cutting those toast crusts off with my own sweaty, shaky fingers.
The kids are sooky-sick. Ivy, with the glassy stare of the addict, keeps demanding Panadol. Teddy has lost his voice and can only complain in a sad croaky whimper. Both are being treated with intensive cuddle therapy. A good day to bake some Daddy's Little Tarts (not a reference to any of his old girlfriends in particular.)
It's really a bastardised classic French apple tart. Puff pastry rounds in muffin cases, sprinkled with almond meal and a dollop of strawberry jam, then topped with apple slices rolled in caster sugar.
Ivy, while constructing these, told me 'Mum, I really, really love sugar.'
Sugar, and Panadol.
Mother of the Year, you think?