He came home from work.
Me "How was your day?"
Him "Oh... not good..."
Thinking the business has gone under I head for the kitchen where he is hunched over the kettle making tea. "I've got the fucking flu again. I can't believe I've got it again!". No, neither can I, it was definitely a cold last time but I got into terrible trouble for saying that. 
"Oh dear, poor you, can I get you anything?"
Him "No" sigh, sniffle, moaning noises, "I'll just go to bed".
Me "Oh dear, poor you, OK then". Plans a happy evening in front of a pay-per-view chick flick with a bottle of something nice.
Two hours later he's still drooping round the house sniffling and sighing in his dressing gown, socks and slippers.
He's got the sofa, he's got the remote control clutched firmly in his feverish hand and he's watching How It's Made. 