I was lying in bed last night in my long-sleeve pyjama top, long pyjama pants, fleece jacket and socks, reminiscing about the days when sleepwear was optional. I am married to a repressed nudenik (he now actually sleeps in briefs and a tee) who would be much more comfortable lying naked on a sunny beach somewhere. While I never really enjoyed sleeping nude (or being awake nude anywhere for that matter), I certainly used to get by without having to wear several layers of fleece to bed.

Don’t get me wrong, I do own some of the slinky stuff, but I’m never quite sure when to wear it - before, during or after? and then there’s always the prospect of the dreaded cold. Nothing squelches the fire more quickly than feeling like a goose-fleshy lump in search of the nearest heat lamp or hot water bottle.

There must be some kind of linear model correlating sleepwear and the length/stage of intimate relationships. You know, lingerie in the courting stage, pretty nighties in the honeymoon years, and flannel in the “don’t-ever-impregnate-me-again-you-bastard years.” My mother-in-law also calls her flannel nightie her “show’s over” nightie. Fleece takes your relationship to a whole new level.