WELL, here’s a first. Over the years, I’ve been lucky enough to receive letters, phone calls, emails and tweets in response to things I’ve written or broadcast. But never before have my opinions sparked anyone into sending me a poem in response.

So thank-you, and thank-you again, to Amanda from Chorleywood.

A couple of weeks ago, she read my sniffing contemplations on the etiquette of having a cold, of the travails that men face when confronting illness, and of the nature of the dreaded man-flu.

And in response came this. A magnificent piece of literature. It’s not enough to just say thank-you – so here it is, in all its glory. Man Flu, by Amanda – from Chorleywood.

Is man-flu an illness that’s one of a kind?

Is it a condition confined to men’s minds?

It affects the male gender, the young and the old

But it’s hard to get female sympathy, I’m told

It’s serious, yes, and lays the male low

The symptoms debilitating, and life-threatening, we know

While the female struggles on through illness and pain

The male’s less stoic and his energies wane

His agility lessens, finds it hard to stay awake

And a multitude of medicines he must take

He moves around slowly, his conversation stilted

Every part of him dying, or at least looking wilted!

A grunt and a nod is the best he proffers

His mind barely focused on the Lemsip she offers

The paper he reads through squinting blurred vision

Oh, what can he watch on the 50 inch television?

Just as he mumbles ‘I’m going back to bed’

A thought creeps into the back of his head

‘I wonder if she’ll make me some tea and some toast?’

‘If she does then, just maybe, I can do what I love most’

He perks right up. He looks suddenly bright

He may just survive! It may be alright!

She makes his toast, and tea in his special man-mug

He reclines on the sofa, tucked up in a rug

He is in the best place now to conquer man-flu

He is warm and he is cosy, and his toes not now blue

He asks her to pass him the remote control

He just manages to grasp it, though it’s heavy to hold

He clicks on the TV, the Sky Menu has all sorts

He scrolls through the bar until he reaches the section on Sports

Oh yes, he now suddenly feels right back on track

He’s better! It’s a miracle! Watford’s playing! He is back!

He stifles his excitement with a cough sounding gruff

And just loud enough to let her think he’s still feeling rough

‘Is there anything you need, my love, to speed up getting better?

You did promise, my darling, we could go shopping for that sweater?’

‘It’s my birthday next week, remember. We’re going out with my friends’

‘How could I forget’, he says ‘I do hope this man-flu ends’

So she goes off to the chemist to see what she can buy

To speed up the healing process of this man-flu; she can but try

She leaves the house, but it isn’t very far

If only she’d walked, and not hopped in the car

‘Oh well’, he thinks, ‘I’ve still got a bit of time to myself’

While she is off shopping for things for my health’

A cheer - he shouts loudly! Watford just scored!

But he checks himself quickly, on her return he must look bored

He cannot let the man-side down, give away man-truth, or man-clue...

...That it really does not exist in man's-body, but only in man's-mind, this incapacitating man-flu!

When there’s poetry in the air, you ponder the beauty of the arts and, of course, the next natural step is to contemplate the sublime beauty of cars. And if you don’t think cars are capable of being beautiful, then you’re sadly wrong. You’ve probably never had the chance to sit down and thought about it I know I am right on this, and will brook no argument. Cars are objects of style, of grace, of majesty. Not all of them, of course, but if you need convincing, just google some images of the following, and swoon: the Mercedes 300SL Gullwing, the Aston Martin DB5 (or DB4, or DB6 for that matter), the Ferrari 250GTO, Citroen’s original DS and the wondrous E-Type Jaguar. If you aren’t in a state of light-headed ecstasy after that bunch, then something has gone badly wrong.

But it was while I was on the M1 this past week that I realised that, when it comes to automotive cravings, age appears to be eroding my sophistication, rather than expanding it.

For many years now, I have dreamed of the moment – which will, categorically, never come – when a pristine DB5 is delivered to my home. Fantasising about cars is something that comes easily to many people, and I’m no different, and the DB5 is a safe and respectable choice of dream object. Good enough for James Bond, of course, but also sufficiently beautiful and fast to be a perfect little dream car.

And then, somewhere near Brent Cross, I saw the car that has now replaced it as my object of desire. It’s not beautiful, or sophisticated, nor even spectacularly expensive. But it would make me smile every day if it was sitting in the drive.

The car in question is a lime green Ford Focus RS. It is the ultimate boy-racer’s car – an everyday Ford Focus injected with automotive steroids, rendered stupidly fast, and then painted this ridiculous colour. It is not beautiful, I’m afraid, and nor does it have that sheen of style that a Ferrari or Porsche carries. What it has, though, is a sort of childlike ability to make people smile. As long as you didn’t take it seriously – and really, if you’re driving a lime-green car, you can’t really pretend to be too po-faced, can you – it would be the most fun car in the world to drive.

The RS has been around for a few years, and there’s a new version coming along later this year, but it’s not the modernity I crave. It’s the idea of myself in the future – a pensioner in a lime-green hot hatchback, smiling at the world, revving my engine, then racing the dominoes team to the Rotary Club. And, I would hope, always winning.