The first thing to say is that they recognise and accept that they are unwell.  Men barely recognise any symptoms they might have, or if they do, they assume (often correctly) that things will probably clear up by themselves anyway.  Women will go to their Doctor’s or consult (or be prompted by) something they have read in Women’s magazines, which seem to specialise in giving ‘advice’ (or simply frightening their readers) about all sorts of medical conditions.  Increasingly now though women are consulting the internet about any symptoms or illnesses they think they might have.  Googling away happily, contenting themselves with the graphic predictions of the suffering and their ultimate demise if these are left unattended.

Many women have told me that this is because of their responsibility for children, they both have to be concerned for their infant’s health and their own, as they have to remain healthy to look after the young.  I am not sure that that is entirely true.  It is probably far more to do with women’s ‘bits’ and the added problems of puberty, menstruation, pregnancy and menopause.  All of which men are both ignorant, and usually dismissive, of.

But there is also I have observed a propensity for women to discuss their own and other women’s medical issues in public. Going into details which men naturally prefer not to even think might exist.  Operations are related with an almost proprietorial glee, often women trumping each other like the famous four Yorkshire men Monty Python sketch – “Oh, yes, I had that too, but I had complications.  Why I almost died under the surgeon’s knife, it’s a wonder I am here today.”

Men, well the men of my generation, were brought up with an image of their own invulnerability.  Like Superman we would never be ill or old, but would fly on in our prime forever.  And we would be the breadwinner’s too, no sick pay often, so you soldiered on, shrugging off colds and aches and pains.  And I too am like that.  I hate going to the Doctor’s and admitting I might be ill.  I rarely go to the Pharmacie – which is full of women anyway, each taking up the time of the assistants and leaving with veritable carrier-bags full of medicines, lotions and potions for every possibly itch or irritation or symptom, real or imagined.

When women get ill, they usually get it sorted and get better, and live to a ripe old age.  When men get ill they refuse to accept it, and shuffle off to a quiet corner to die in peace, with maybe a copy of Playboy to console themselves with.