The man who can eat sausage rolls in his sleep, play rugby in his sleep and speak Latin when somnun can also sneeze while in snooze-mode.

I absolutely know these things to be true because for three nights I lay alongside, listening to the sounds of nasal music that occupied his week of man flu.

Catholic men, I've noted, have their own special type of man flu ... that is a special twisted, stoic place of suffering, with chocolate.

Some might brand it denial to be so, so sick but watch all the stages of Le Tour de Couch, sweating in the zero degree discomfort of a Tasmanian winter living room.

Some might suggest that pizza and beer do not hold mystic medicinal qualities.

Or, that a giant Toblerone and big box of peanut M&Ms at midnight is not conducive to a speedy, robust recovery.

But that wouldn't be me, would it?

The other thing I've noted: When our children see their dad suffering or eating too much chocolate they blame me.

WTF?

Kids!! It's not my fault.

Your dad's a responsible adult who just happens to be in the supermarket every single time chocolate is half price; at least twice a week in winter.

He sneaks the stuff in and hides it downstairs. I know he does. The cats have eyes!

I cook vegetables and buy fruit and grains. I cook meals from scratch. We eat fish more than red meat and this winter, so far, I haven't baked a single chocolate cake (note to self: time is running out!)

We go to bed at a sensible time. I've told him about sleep hygiene. He spent six months of last year with a bloody sleep apnoea machine that made him look like Hannibal Lecter.

But every night, after 30 minutes in bed, he says "I think I'll get up for a while". The tele goes on, the stash is located from downstairs...near the wine... and before you can say "welcome my friends. Welcome to my chocolate factory" husband has entered his own late-night world of pure imagination.

What comes next? He comes back to bed around 4am, sneezing and snoring and sweating and truly very, very crook.

His father was the same and lived till 85.

Apparently, people younger than you and I crave compliments.

I like to think I'm pretty good at recognising and acknowledging another person's efforts and as an only child, I know I crave positive strokes.

(See? I can be so, so self aware!)

However, I heard this week that psychologists suggest three compliments a day will work wonders on, let's say people the same age as our children.

It seems these magical, youngling creatures, like a snuggly cat, respond very well to positive strokes.

What do you do when an email starts:

Dear Danielle,

PFA?

Does it really mean to say:

Dear Danielle,

My name is Oskar.

I am in a country far far away. I hope I appear genuine and you will instantly spend your organisation's hard earned dollars on my very interesting, badly-designed, dodgy advertising that will reach the millions of people in Tasmania who, like me, care about your work with cats living with insomnia.

Kiss Kiss.

Dear reader, I tried really hard to figure PFA.

Was PFA Pretty Fast Actress? Primary Function Area?

Perhaps, Pretty Fabulous Acronym?

NOPE. It means: Please Find Attachment.

You know what's coming.

WTF?