Christmas Pyjama Quotes

— Tu sais qu’un jour, on racontera à nos enfants que tu m’as demandée en mariage avec un nem et alors que j’étais en pyjama ? — Je sais, ai-je souri. Et je sais que ton pyjama est à l’origine de nombre de mes fantasmes.

Because there’s a silent, shrugging, stoical acceptance of all the things in the world we can never be part of: shorts, swimming pools, strappy dresses, country walks, roller-skating, ra-ra skirts, vest tops, high heels, rope climbing, sitting on a high stool, walking past building sites, flirting, being kissed, feeling confident. And ever losing weight, ever. The idea of suggesting we don’t have to be fat –that things could change –is the most distant and alien prospect of all. We’re fat now and we’ll be fat forever and we must never, ever mention it, and that is the end of it. It’s like Harry Potter’s Sorting Hat. We were pulled from the hat marked ‘Fat’ and that is what we must now remain, until we die. Fat is our race. Our species. Our mode. As a result, there is very little of the outside world –and very little of the year –we can enjoy. Summer is sweaty under self-conscious layers. On stormy days, wind flattens skirts against thighs, and alarms both us and, we think, onlookers and passers-by. Winter is the only time we feel truly comfortable: covered head to toe in jumpers, coats, boots and hat. I develop a crush on Father Christmas. If I married him, not only would I be expected to stay fat, but I’d look thin standing next to him, in comparison. Perspective would be my friend. We all dream of moving to Norway, or Alaska, where we could wear massive padded coats all the time, and never reveal an inch of flesh. When it rains, we’re happiest of all. Then we can just stay in, away from everyone, in our pyjamas, and not worry about anything. The brains in jars can stay inside, nice and dry.

I'm alive. I'm safe. And life's a gift. Okay the gift sucks a bit at the moment, sort of like getting a pair of oversized pyjamas for Christmas when what you really wanted was an iPod, but I need to make every moment count.

On Christmas morning, my Mam and Dad were downstairs shouting to me to look out the window. They’d shout, ‘There’s Santa.’ Dad used to ring this bell and say it was one of Santa’s bells on the sleigh. I could hear Santa’s bells ringing as I jumped out of bed, really excited and I looked out the bedroom window in to the dark morning, fully expecting to see Santa and co magically flying through the air and maybe even he would spot me and give me a wave. ‘I can’t see him,’ I’d proclaim in sadness and then the bells would stop and I knew he’d have gone to someone else’s house, but I also knew that he hadn’t forgotten me. I’d run downstairs and in to the room whilst still in my pyjamas where the prezzies were. The excitement was unbelievable and my parents used to buzz as they watched my face beaming up at them in joy.

I want to be at home, cosy in my favourite set of pyjamas, making my way through a box of chocolates and watching an old Christmas movie.