ALL women know that men hate talking about their health. Only last night I arrived home to be met by a moaning, groaning husband, weaving his way slowly around the house like a wounded grizzly bear.

"What's the matter?" I asked. "Nothing," came the reply.

After an hour of the same I insisted on being told what was wrong. "I've got a cold, I feel terrible," he reluctantly croaked. Typical. Now the Government is focusing on men's health to raise awareness and get them to speak up and seek help if they suspect something may be wrong.

However, we women can help, says a men's health doctor, by carrying out MoTs on the blokes in our lives.

To find out what state he's in you need to ask yourself a number of questions about his life.

Worried about my husband's diet of coffee, Nurofen and Bran Flakes, I leapt to this challenge.

Q: Is he eating well?

A: I think not. As I've already mentioned, he's a bit of a pill popper, loves fiercely-hot curries, rejects meat and two veg and has to be force-fed fruit.

Q: Has his fuse got shorter?

A: Definitely. I only need to ask him where he's put the dishcloth and he's effing and blinding.

Q: Is his eyesight deteriorating?

A: No. It was atrocious when I met him 20 years ago and the same now. He has never been able to read without glasses - the lenses are so thick they are uPVC double-glazed - and, try as he might, he can't put a shelf up straight.

Q: What happened to his waist line?

A: It disappeared. It has somehow become moulded into his torso. Although the loss of his waist has resulted in gains in other places - I recently suggested that, particularly when going out in a white cotton t shirt, he wear a bra.

Q: Does he go to the loo all night?

A: No, quite the opposite, he hardly goes at all - ever. Sometimes we will go out for the day and, despite numerous drinks he will not go. He's got some sort of allergy towards public toilets. This can't be normal.

Q: Is he performing in bed?

A: What a horrible phrase. Performing is something you do in a circus or on stage. But I suppose there is something theatrical about our bedtime routine. Arguing over how long each one should be allowed to read, bickering over the duvet, one of us swapping rooms when my youngest daughter decides that she doesn't like her own bed. Farce is how I'd describe this 'performance'.

Q: Does he complain of indigestion?

A: I can't say for certain, but I'm willing to bet that one of the many moans he emits after a curry could be down to that.

Q: Did he forget your birthday?

A: No. But I once forgot his.

So, after that in-depth analysis, the prognosis is that most of the above can be dealt with at home. Thank goodness. I'd have to knock my husband out with a stun gun to get him anywhere near the doctor. Not that I'll be able to do much beyond secretly mixing bits of apple into his Friday night Madras.

Of course, men's health is a serious issue, and I'm obviously looking at it light-heartedly. But no one can deny that a man's reaction to illness does have a comical side. Only a man can turn a cold into the plague.