Carol’s Column

The silk sheet syndrome

"DISGUSTING, decadent," said my mother-in-law.

"Delicious", said my husband.

"It'll give your marriage a new lease of life," said my good friend Betty.

This marriage is lively enough I thought to myself as I heard the happy sound of children fighting, the dog chewing up the milkman, the cat wailing and my husband singing *Basin Street Blues* off-key in the shower which had lost the main nozzle and spurted irregularly.

In case you're wondering what I'm talking about, it's simple — silk sheets.

Gorgeous and ice-blue, they came into our life last Monday.

It happened like this.

"We've been invited to a party," I said excitedly to my husband as we brushed our teeth together one morning.

He handed me the toothmug. "You gargle first," he said. It's little thoughtful gestures like this that make life worth living.

"Did you hear? We've been invited to a party," I repeated.

"Good heavens, I can't keep up with this wild social whirl,' he replied, dropping his toothbrush with shock.

"That's the second party we've been to in five years," I answered catching him in the sternum with my elbow.

"We really must enlarge the bathroom, this one's not big enough for you, me and your stomach."

"You're never satisfied," he grumbled as he edged his way sideways through the door just managing to avoid getting stuck between the medicine cabinet and the washbasket. "If you'd removed the bath, we'd have no problems at all, there'd be plenty of room."

"About the party," I babbled on happily, "Don't just lie there, say something — it's a play and they're having a pyjama party opening to celebrate."

"You're joking," he said. "I wouldn't be seen dead in my pyjamas even if I had any."

"Come on," I said gaily, "be daring, you only live once and anyway, it'll be fun."

"It'll be ridiculous," he said.

And that was that.

Until Friday, when in a dramatic about-face, he changed his mind.

"Find me a pair of black pyjamas," he instructed "and I'll go."

So I took his 30-year-old pyjamas, the ones with the long pants that he'd received as a Barmitzvah present, and dyed them black.

I discovered much later that a youngster of 30 or so, had stood up on the Parkwood bus and offered my spouse her seat saying: "It's all yours Grandad!" — which made him revalue his lifestyle.

Perhaps we are dull and staid, he'd thought to himself, we must live it up a little.

The party was a razzle.

"Who is that devastating man?" I heard someone say as we tripped into the room — he in his dyed Barmitvah pyjamas (with an added metre on the legs, he'd grown a little since then, you understand) and me in my Woolworth's crinkle-free drip-dry cotton).

I must admit, he did look stunning. He'd added a top hat, a white silk scarf and a carnation in his upper pocket.

The audience was far more amusing than the play but the finale of the evening came when they announced the prizewinner for the best dressed pyjama.

Fanfares, trumpets, then: "It's Rob Lazar!" the voice said.

"The shareholders will never believe this, thank heavens," he muttered as he accepted his prize.

And that is how we acquired silk sheets.

[TEXT LOST IN PHOTOCOPY] and remade the bed in silk. Oh, they looked magnificent as they shimmered and shone in the dim light (we're into 60w bulbs to keep down the electricity account).

The man in my life, dashing and debonair, flung off his top hat and leapt into bed. Then landed on the floor as he shot across like a jet-propelled rocket.

"Er, they're fairly slippery," he murmured, "take some getting used to," he added as he daintily lowered himself on the bed.

It has to be admitted that although silk sheets look superb, feel sensuous and give one a feeling of luxury — they have distinct drawbacks.

It is not easy to turn on a silk sheet, due to the fact that it is impossible to get a grip on the sheets.

It is impossible to sit up unaided as one tends to slide down the sheets.

To sleep comfortably on silken pillowcases, it is imperative to grow a beard in order to prevent your face slipping down the pillow incline.

Which has caused me endless problems as my children and pets prefer me clean-shaven.

But there's no doubt — this incident has changed our lives, added a sparkle as it were, a new dimension.

For instance, our 11-year-old stole the show when he wore the silk sheets as Angel Gabriel in a concert.

Macaroni the cat finds them cooler than the dacron drip-dry variety and yesterday I found the plumber asleep on them.

He apologised profusely when awoken: "I just couldn't resist having a little kip on silk," he said, bashfully. "I've always wanted to know how the other half live."

The other change has been my normally conservative husband's attitude to life.

Only this morning he kissed me goodbye and departed for work. He looked the picture of sartorial elegance in his pyjamas, a red cravat and matching beret.

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