Pyjama-o-rama: The Impossible Quest

And back to the minutiae of life in London. There are some things in London that defy all logic. Supermarkets closing at 5 on Sundays for instance. Or the way the electric sign at East Putney station always says it's a city-bound train when in fact it's going to Edgware Road. Or the fact that pet shops don't actually sell pets (...with the exception of Harrods, which charges a minimum of 1000 pounds).

But today I stumbled upon one of the strangest anomalies yet - pyjamas. If there was one thing I thought England - nay, the whole of Britain - would excel in, it was man-style pyjamas, with button-down nightshirts and generous trousers in checks or stripes, the type an old Scottish guy would wear while smoking a pipe and slugging a single-malt, possibly with matching slippers and hopefully while seated in a worn leather arm chair. But with a bit of a modern twist: the kind of manly pyjamas with a feminine cut that, say, twenty-something women could wear while quaffing mulled wine and not freeze to death with the substandard heating in their ex-Council flat. Where were Australian-style pyjamas endorsed by ex-tennis players and media-mogul's model wives that were so stylish you could probably nip down to the shops in them (something I believe my sister has done on several occasions, although in the area of Sydney where she lives I doubt anyone would actually notice).

However, good pyjamas are hard to find. Unless you are looking for pyjamas in baby blue (or possibly soft pink) with penguins, teddy bears, baby giraffes or various other infantile animals, and then you're in luck. Even the high-street stores renowed for selling slinky lingerie (not particularly expensive, admittedly) sell sets of fluffy pink and baby blue pyjamas embossed with what I believe were baby cows.

I don't really understand this preoccupation with baby animals on sleepwear for grown women. I mean I have nothing against baby animals per se, but a perfectly respectable set of tartan pyjama pants instantly regresses to something an eight year old should wear when teamed with an oversized red jumper with a beaming teddy bear on the front. Except that said red jumper is size 14-16.

Admittedly, ten quid will get you a super cheap set of glittery zebra printed pants which are not short enough to be 3/4 length but not long enough to reach your ankles (probably because they were made by small children in Bangladesh). The only other options seem to be crisp, French-style embossed cotton numbers costing a fortune or slinky silk sets which aren't really the thing for watching X-Factor, or little camisole and shorts-sets which would be fine if the only man in the house wasn't feline.

I tried Gap, but never managed to get back there (I have banned myself from Oxford Street unless it's a culinary emergency). In the end, I have had to settle for a pair of very nice pants from good old Marks & Spencer, but compromised with a tank top instead of a big manly shirt. Neither have any baby animals on them. I find life in London an ongoing struggle, but at least I have conquered the pyjama battle.