Pyjamas

I bought pyjamas recently. I like those ones that are like a flannel suit, but couldn’t find anything I could imagine myself smoking a pipe in. After much browsing and deliberation (there are seriously about 60 designs of pyjamas. This is why we need communism) I picked the silkiest ones there that weren’t silk. I’m not wearing silk.

On account of my personality I sleep alone, so I don’t need to impress anyone, hence the grey and black ensemble was my get-up of choice. At the checkout, the posh checkout dude (why do I always feel inferior to the posh-department-store checkout people?) stroked the material and said “Mmm, so soft.”

“OK, sorry I’m just going to go get another pair.”

He looked shocked. “Sir, I can assure you my hands are clean.”

“Well, first of all, I don’t believe you. Second, you’ve touched them and said ‘mmm’. I can’t sleep in these.”

And so on.

Anyhoo, the pant component of my new PJs has pockets. Why? Maybe they’re the ‘trek’ edition. “For the man that likes to take stuff to bed.”

I don’t know how long I keep pyjamas for. Will I need new ones in a year? Two years? Half a year? It makes me sad that I’ll buy more pyjamas at some point in the future and nothing will have changed.

Is this why people have children, so that they can see some passing of time? So that when they buy replacement pyjamas they can look back and feel proud that their offspring are larger than they were last time. That it’s not all exactly the same.

That’s it. I’ll move to Montreal. Maybe Sydney, NS. Before my honey runs out.

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