I’ve decided that I am going to wear pyjamas from 6.30pm. Both at home and on the odd occasion that I go out. I will have sets suited for various seasons and they will have matching footwear and outerwear. I might even have pairs designated for different days of the week.
I came to this conclusion the other day when I was home alone. I had an early shower, turned on the telly, poured a cocktail and sat on the sofa in my new pjs – pure cotton, white, with gently flared pants. It was bliss. I was comfortable, cool, ready for bed and entirely happy. I wanted to feel like that all the time.
Now, I am not talking about negligees, or peignoirs. I am not looking to pull or reveal. I’m want coverage and comfort. My plan is that the material will be cotton and linen for summer, brushed cotton and heavy silk for the winter. They will be fairly tailored – I don’t want a gigantic blousey fit – no need to sacrifice style. I prefer a slim silhouette – with long sleeves, or spaghetti straps. The tops must be long enough to cover my bum so that I can sleep in the top only. And the bottoms will have the kind of drawstring that stay the course, not those skimpy jobs that fray and pull out. In essence, a feminised man’s pyjama set.
I am not alone in my desire for evening ease. sofamother texted me the other day at 6pm – “I’m bathed and in my pyjamas!” And then again at 8.21pm: “Had to lie through my teeth. Neighbour dropped by for a chat. Said I had bathed early because of load shedding.” (We are on electricity rations in SA at the moment – I won’t bore you with the details.) I think she should have owned her look – poured her neighbour a glass of wine and not said a word. Faint heart never won fair pyjama.
I’m going to a cocktail party on Friday evening – at a sculpture park. The dress code specifies ‘floaty summer dresses’, but let’s face it – that’s not going to happen. I have papery skin on the inside of my arms now. If they as much as brush against my side it looks like I’m encased in crepe paper. Instead, I have decided going to hold to my new plan: I will pull on a pair of dark green pyjama pants I bought from Collette Dinnigan 15 years ago, top them with a loose navy silk shirt and add some gold flip-flops. A soft cashmere jersey will be tucked in my bag in case of chill. And I will either look like a style icon or someone’s aunt who had a few too many g’n’ts and got lost on the way to the bathroom. Either way, I won’t care – I’ll be comfy and ready to hop into my bed the minute I get home. These days that’s what I call style.