The truth about comfort

Goodbye clingy, hello floaty.

[Photo by lan deng on Unsplash]

There was long a phenomenon in west London – way before the current fashion for oversized clothes took a firm hold – of women d’un certain âge and a particular wealth bracket wearing what looked like a very expensive, and more robust version of pyjamas. Floaty, but durable, and a sense of chic so nonchalant and effortless, it looked like they had picked their clothes that morning in the dark, while a fire alarm urged their speedy exit. But it worked.

I’d usually notice these women breezing around Kensington or Chelsea or Liberty in a waft of Bergamote Fantastico and wonder who sent out the memo that pimped-up nurses’ scrubs were essential wearing, and why. Different demographics have their own uniforms – nonchalant hordes in expensive white T-shirts and black tailored trousers still haunt Selfridges daily – but the floaty pyjama ladies always stood out because, to me, they seemed supremely confident, totally in charge, and always in a good mood.

I put it down to the liberating feeling of being well-off, having access to decent skincare (and perhaps a hung tennis coach), and no longer giving a toss about revealing their body to anybody. No mean feat when so much womenswear pushes its owner to flash the flesh – panels sliced out here and there, cinched waists, plunging necklines – it must be so annoying for anyone who prefers a winter chill to remain a mystery.

There was something inspiring and endearing about the pyjama gang and their huge tote bags and, in summer, humongous straw hats, even though they were often married to men who adored being rude to waiters. The fluid movement of acres of extra fabric, the refusal to aspire to some outmoded idea of attractiveness – even though they always looked great, because £££ – and their generally airy vibe. Chef’s kiss. Men of a similar age and bank balance weren’t stepping up. The money was being spent, yes, but on half-zip sweaters (I’m no fashion policeman but, please, burn them) and trousers always the wrong length and a size too small. A particular tranche of rich men would sooner have their clingy Turnbull & Asser shirt torn from their cold, dead body than be seen in something that floated. Their loss.

As years went by, I grew to understand the pyjama ladies’ game, especially once I saw it played by people lacking SW7 postcodes or healthy bank balances: creatives. Have you noticed how many artists, lower-echelon actors, and maybe even writers, wear clothes that make them look like Lilliputians fighting their way out of a groundsheet? Do they have ‘good’ bodies or not? You’ll never know unless one sleeps with you or does squats next to you at the gym.

It hit me what was going on: it wasn’t just a fashion statement, a reach for the cachet of constructed Bohemia…