“Would you like some pyjamas instead of the hospital gown?” Asked the nurse when I was going for my shower the morning after my operation.
This seemingly innocuous question then sparked a discussion on nightwear no one had anticipated.
Once I left my parents' home I vowed never again to wear pyjamas. What I really dislike is not pyjamas <i>per se</i> but what they represent which is getting formally dressed to go to bed.
When I was young in the Forties and Fifties and even the Sixties to some extent, of course we lived in cold houses heated by a coal fire or a gas fire or an electric fire in the main rooms. Bedrooms were invariably freezing in the winter.
Conversely in the summer I recall the house being unbearably hot at bedtime on occasions.
So when I left home I ditched my pyjamas for good. However, I’ve spent a lot of time in hospital over the years and one can hardly wear nothing but one’s birthday suit in hospital. Apart from anything, approaching 80 years of age the human body is rarely a thing of beauty.
So I have always worn the far more comfortable hospital gown.
Anyway we had a good laugh and a discussion on who did and who did not sleep in their birthday suit. And I got my gown.
I'm now out of hospital and back at Anna's. Home on Tuesday.
(Apologies to those who read this yesterday. I didn't realise that the font size had changed from normal to tiny. Yet another Blogger mystery.)
