My wonderful daughter Cathy gave me fleece pyjamas for Christmas. My first pair. I knew there was something about them when I tried them on before I went jogging and instantly grew tired, as though tucking in for the night. The theme of the pyjamas is cats, all of whom are wearing pink bows. They’re a little big on me and I look ridiculous, but it’s a very happy ridiculous.
As soon as I put them on, odd phrases started flying through my head:
“Coastal flooding is not a concern – if you’re wearing fleece.”
“He was a huge man and he stood there just inside the door, blocking it entirely, wearing his fleece–lined sailor’s coat.”
“I have discovered fleece, and it has swallowed my mind.”
“Now I a fourfold vision see, and a fourfold vision has given fleece to me.”
“But I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep in my fleece pyjamas.”
“Good morning, Charlotte. Good morning, Fanny,” said their father, bending down until his breeches creaked to kiss them.
“Why, Fanny, you have a lump on your forehead.”
“I’m not Fanny,” said Charlotte, scowling. “I’m Charlotte.”
“But you are wearing a blue fleece pinafore,” said Jack.
“Because Fanny put on mine, and she hit me with her shoe, the cuckoo head,” said Charlotte, with barely contained passion.”
Adapted (slightly) from Patrick O’Brian’s Desolation Island, page 9)
Fleece has become music to my ears. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, that I may see my jammies as I pass.