"From Pajamagram...pyjamas delivered overnight and for Valentine's day in a gift hat box...and now introducing the Hoodie-Footie Snuggle Suit..."
So goes the radio advert for Pajamagram. Not a bad idea, but since when is a Hoodie-Footie Snuggle Suit an appropriate gift for your loved one? What happened to sexy lingerie, chocolates and red roses? If Simon gave me one of these romper suits then I would be seriously concerned about the state of our marriage. Honestly, it looks like something Alex (or maybe Churchill) would wear, not something you should be buying for your spouse.
The Pajamagram advert reminded me of the wonderful story on the BBC a couple of weeks about about the Tesco supermarket in Wales which had resorted to banning its customers from entering the shop if they were wearing pyjamas. This priceless interview with one Welsh mother who was barred entry when trying to buy 'a pack of fags' was one of the funniest things I had heard for ages. What was even more amusing were the comments on Radio 4's PM blog in response to the story, a brilliant example of class snobbery (and, dare I admit it, exactly the sort of thing I find myself thinking but can't believe others say aloud): 'If people in your supermarket/area wear pyjamas to go shopping you should move/go to Waitrose'.
What is it about wearing pyjamas whilst shopping that Tesco believes will make other people feel uncomfortable? It must be something to do with the public and private spheres colliding; pyjamas are usually only seen by one's nearest and dearest and so seeing a stranger in their nightwear is an overly intimate experience. And how typical that the British reaction is embarrassment.
(My mother has just pointed out that I do take Alex out most days in his pyjamas and neither he nor the general public seem too bothered by it. In fact, his sleepwear seems to attract admiring glances. I wonder if he would be allowed into Tesco ?).
Thinking about all this, I have just had a flashback to an evening at the British Embassy compound in Tehran when things were hotting up a little bit in the run-up to the Iraq War. There had been several bomb threats made against the Embassy and then someone drove their truck into the compound gates, setting fire to the vehicle and perishing inside. To add to the excitement, a few small hand-made grenades had started to come in over the back wall, so those of us with houses in the most vulnerable locations sought refuge late at night in the Ambassador's Residence, which was in the middle of the compound. My friend Kate and I were welcomed in by the Ambassador and his wife, who calmed us down and gave us cups of tea. I remember feeling quite shaken by the whole affair, but wonder now whether perhaps it was less the home-made pipe bombs and more the fact that I had just seen the Ambassador in his PJs and a paisley dressing gown.
I'm off now to lie down in a darkened room. In my PJs, obviously.
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