Open Writing

What sort of morning face do you present to the world? Are you cheerful, smiley and ‘Put the kettle on,’ or down at the mouth and ‘Shut that door-ish.’

Can you automatically cast the sheets and head for the toothpaste without batting an eyelid, or does your plunge into the coverless need half an hour’s careful consideration first?

My energetic leaping partner can bound from his hollow the second the alarm splinters my eardrums, but my unwinding process takes longer. Every morning I awaken to what feels like two lead puddings bulging from my arm sockets. However carefully I arrange my affairs the night before, each morning my 30 denier has me in its blood-clotting embrace. My body is trussed and bound in nylon like a spider’s dinner and the dead weight of two bloodless arms has me pinned to the flannelette.

I have tried various styles of slumberwear in my effort to overcome this crude awakening but they all seem to grow strangling tentacles overnight. Narrow straps become steel tourniquets, half-belts give me the ‘hump,’ high-waisted yokes leave me with a painfully quilted chest – all necessitate an elongated recovery period, there is no short cut. I have tried releasing the pressure gradually but it only prolongs the pain. Once I manage tentatively to undam the bloodstream the excruciating tingle that slowly creeps down each arm finally to prick the sausagey fingers is enough to shrivel anyone’s benevolence.

No wonder birds can wake up singing, they don’t wear nylon nighties. All this confirms that I am a miserable morning person, ever searching for a mode of undress that does not feature the dreaded tangle-tingle. By some slow and painful metamorphosis all the nighties have emerged looking like fussy ball-gowns and the evening dresses are beginning to resemble night-gowns.

One Christmas I received an ambitious floaty two-tiered affair that looked promising. Unfortunately during the night the top layer became trapped underneath my sleeping partner’s heavy anatomy and when I turned over it split up to the first button. With my usual early morning aplomb I didn’t notice the damage until I caught a bathroom occupant staring quizzically at my new cut-away front.

The slippery satin creations look divine, but I already have a sadly neglected satin housecoat, which always provokes an icy sensation of having been rubbed down with an iced lolly whenever I try to wear it. Pyjamas always haunt me with that back to front feeling.

My husband does not share this problem. No holiday counterpane would look complete without his neatly folded pyjamas. I bought them to celebrate his first illness of our marriage – before I could ring the doctor I had to rush out and buy them. I think they still retain their original creases; ah yes, they don’t make them like that any more.

The only compliment I can pay the man-made fibres is that they are easily dried. They are not easy to wash, as water temperature has to be carefully con-
trolled with only a suggestion of the spinner to dry, and in my opinion look tatty and unironed when left just to drip. White nylon school blouses are a disaster, we never had one yet that lived up to its colour after washing. Do the men who make it ever sleep in it – or on it – I wonder?

Its static properties are also a nuisance. I have a skirt that clings to my legs like a pair of tights and snaps frighteningly back at me when I try to dislodge it. I consider it an unhealthy fabric, but mixed with cotton or wool it does have crease-resistant advantages.

I saw a beautiful white cotton broderie anglaise trimmed negligee set the other day with matching mop-cap which looked reasonably priced until I realised this was only for the cap. But I long to possess it, if only I could be sure it would behave in bed. Would it change into a choking octopus the moment we hit the sheets?

Would the cap finish up dangling from hubby’s aertex, like the antiquated hair-nets my mother used to wear? The caption underneath amused me, though – Women’s size only. It wouldn’t suit him anyway.

What I really want is something in soft, cuddly, interlock material, a loose-fitting kaftan style, something that will not make me feel as if I have just wrestled three rounds with Jackie Pallo – when I reluctantly have to leave the arms of Morpheus. You can keep the pretty lace trims, which feel like frayed wire netting on sensitive skins; stimulating male adrenaline takes second place to keeping my circulation flowing.

It’s surprising how swiftly golden slumbers can kiss the eyes of the elderly. Once on holiday, a lady who I had never met before fell asleep on my
shoulder as we shared a park bench. I was enjoying a few quiet seconds waiting for the children to spend up so we could go to tea, when I felt her weight slip slowly on to my shoulder. An hour later with the sun slowly sinking behind the heads of my bored and impatient sycophants and the goose pimples rising swiftly on my bare arms, I sat in the empty park racking my brains for some way to arouse the unknown sleeping beauty at my side. Eventually her own snores penetrated her slumber and we slipped gratefully away.

I SHALL definitely not be tuning in to morning television. A laryngitic goldfish would be too noisy for me to face at breakfast. Richard Baker’s radio programme is the only contact I can stomach with the outside world at this time of day what with cornflakes being thrown into dishes, a yawning dog, and screams of ‘Where’s this?’ ‘Who moved that . . . . ?’ my sensitive acoustics are not ready for the onslaught of morning television. Actually the distant call of a nearby bowling green is presenting promising opposition to evening viewing, and anyway I can burn toast just looking out of the window.

But I have taken up a new position. I can no longer be described as sedentary. Once again I have become a cyclist. Last Tuesday evening – the safest time to launch myself on unsuspecting motorists and hopefully washing-up time for most of my acquaintances – saw my initial pedal-in.

Feeling a shade conspicuous with a handbag swinging under my chin and trouser bottoms sweeping the road, I pedalled as elegantly as I could up Manchester Road homewards. Thankfully the call of Hawaii Five-O proved stronger than the urge to ridicule, and my family did not witness my touchdown outside our garden gate. My exhaustion was such I found it easier to fall off than climb off. When I get the use back in my legs again, I’ll let you know if it’s doing me any good!