In praise of... pyjamas

I love my pyjamas. I would spend all day in them if I could. Not because I can't be bothered to get dressed (although that does come into it occasionally), but because there's just nothing more comfortable for pottering round the house in.

Unfortunately, despite not being officially employed, I do still have to leave the house in a morning and be seen by other people, and I haven't yet reached the level where I can go out in my baggy grey jogging bottoms and not care what other people may think. I confess I have been known to do the school run in them when there hasn't been time to get dressed, but on those occasions I've stayed firmly inside the car so no-one would know anyway. Typically it was one of these mornings when the police were stopping everyone to breathalyse them, and even though I didn't have to get out and don't think the policelady noticed or particularly cared what I was wearing, I still felt slightly embarrassed.

So although I do put 'proper' clothes on in a morning - well, jeans and a jumper anyway - the first thing I do once the kids have gone to bed is get into my slobby clothes. And when Mr.B is away, I tend to do it as soon as I know we don't need to leave the house again that day. One of the advantages of living in a new town/country is that you don't know anyone so there's no chance of unexpected visitors to necessitate a swift wardrobe change. Or so I assumed - I've been caught out once since we got here, and was mortified one evening when there was a knock at the dor and I answered it in my comfy but terribly unattractive clothes to find the beautifully dressed, immaculately groomed French lady from upstairs who wanted to borrow a chair for a dinner party. Bless her, she didn't even flinch at the sight of me, but I was truly mortified.

My mother would have berated me seven ways from Sunday if she knew what I wore at home - she was very old-fashioned in her views about certain things, and always told me that I should make an effort to look nice for my husband. And she practiced what she preached, inevitably looking well turned out no matter what else was going on. Happily Mr.B doesn't seem to mind too much (and I do make a bit of an effort every now and then) although he does know exactly what my mother would have said and has a little dig once in a while.
At which point I bring out my high heels. Not to wear, to hit him with.