I love my pyjamas. They are the acme, the Platonic ideal of pyjamas. They are from Liberty, purchased in the sale for a still unconscionable amount of money because I could not bear to spend the rest of my life regretting them. They are worth every penny. They ought to be worn by a slightly louche divorcée with a cocktail in her hand in a Mediterranean villa c. 1932. They have to put up with me, and I do my best, at least with the cocktails. They are silk, and fragile, and when the seams finally give up the ghost I shall fold them in tissue paper forever, or possibly frame them. They are beautiful.
My pyjamas (without me in them), let me show you them. OK, let me show you the fabric. They’re pyjama-shaped, so you can work the rest out for yourselves.