KERRE MCIVOR

KERRE IS WORSE FOR WEAR AFTER GETTING LOCKED OUT OF HER HOUSE

I’ve never done it before. And after my experience, I will never do it again. It was a calculated risk and one that backfired, although no harm was done.

It happened last week. I came home from work on a cold, windy day and immediately got out of my restricting work clothes and into a ‘lounging set’. That’s how they were described when I bought them in London to wear around the house while I was staying with my little family. I don’t wear PJs. Or a nightie. I find them way too restricting in bed and always have done. But when I was staying with my daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren, there are some things people shouldn’t have to see and Nana’s saggy carcass is one of them.

So I bought a lounging set and it’s jolly comfortable, in no way flattering and never meant to be worn outside of a lounge. But it’s useful to have when you just want to relax at home. I had an afternoon of writing ahead of me, as well as soup and muffins to make, and I wasn’t expecting visitors so comfort trumped style.

However, an hour or so into my writing, it was slow going. I had two columns to write and the words just weren’t flowing so I decided a glass of pinot noir would help clear my writer’s block. It generally does. Only trouble was, I didn’t have a bottle in the house. Could I be faffed changing out of my comfy clothes to go up to the shop, just 100 metres up the road?

I imagined a particularly chic friend’s outraged response: “Of course you can be bothered! You can’t become one of those people who lower their standards to wear pyjamas in the STREET!”

It’s just up the road, I reasoned. I won’t see anyone I know and it will take me literally five minutes. Really, I thought as

I headed up the road, what’s the difference between exercise gear and a lounging set? One could argue, I remonstrated to myself as I paid for the wine, that the lounging set is less insulting to an observer’s gaze than lycra as it doesn’t cling quite so much.

I heaved a sigh of relief as I climbed the steps to my home, grateful not to have seen anyone I knew, turned the handle – and nothing. I had locked myself out. And the husband wouldn’t be home for hours and couldn’t be called away for something so trivial.

It was then the scales fell from my eyes. I wasn’t in a lounging set. I was wearing pyjamas. In public. With jandals. And no bra. At least I had a jersey over the top so it wasn’t quite so grotesque, but there was nowhere I could go to sit and wait for the husband’s return without being utterly ashamed.

I could see my friend’s smirk in the cloud overhead. Oh, shove off, I thought and settled in on the verandah for a long cold wait. And then I saw the dry cleaning I’d picked up on my way home from work in the back of the car.

Was the car open? It was! Two of the dresses were ball gowns, but one was a work dress and would do just fine. It even had a bit of support up top so the saggy boobs weren’t so obvious. I whipped round the back of the house and put it on.

Excellent, I thought. I bought something to read from my local book shop, walked to the café, ordered a glass of pinot noir – and thoroughly enjoyed a splendid two hours in my own company. And nobody looking at me would have known I was the sort of person who wore their PJs on the street. But I was – and I’m never tempting fate like that again.