You can share colds. Not good.

After having chased my little sister all across Manhattan in rainy weather for two days, it was not surprising that I came down with a severe cold. I have been languishing in my pyjamas, surrounded by little rolled up balls of snotty tissue and Dayquil for the second time this winter. Luckily for me, it was the weekend and Presidents' Day. M. was faced with the task of making sure I didn't die of boredom or a Nyquil overdose.

He gallantly cooked for me a mushroom omelette, a mushroom and chicken pasta and then ordered takeaway. He recorded the NBA All Star Game for me to finish watching when I felt better - I was shouting with a sore throat in my excitement, which brought on a fever. He played 'Place that State' with me: he came up with a state name, I marked it on the New York Times weather map. He taught me how to pronounce city names ('Shy-Ann' for 'Cheyenne'). He read Cosmo and discovered there were different makeup techniques for different face shapes.

After all that gallantry, the man himself has become ill. I knew he wasn't feeling very well because he started looking around for Tylenol. This morning I heard a "Gah!" from the kitchen and walked in to find him looking bewildered while standing over a heap of cornflakes.
"I split the bag when I tried to open it," he said.

Poor M. I guess I should get better soon-ish.