Member-only story
At this point in a long day and a half, I care naught for pyjamas. I’m dressed in reasonably dishevelled fashion — rumpled polyester trousers and a cotton shirt that has lost any freshly-ironed sharpness it may have had twelve hours, two cities, and a bus ride back — and my brain is shutting down.
I tick off the pyjama box, push them to one side, and continue the shutdown process.
As an aside, I’m currently wearing these fabled garments, somewhere high over Kabul on my return trip, with enough time, alertness and sobriety to take up the tale once more. It’s been a busy few days. Bear with me.
I wake after a couple of hours. Lie-flat bed it may be but there is enough light, noise and movement in the cabin that I’m roused to consciousness now and then — rather like my elderly cat at home trying to find a comfortable space in front of my sleeping nose — and eventually I’m awake for good.
Not to worry. I’ve had my kip, and I have work to do.
I poke my head into the galley, find Effendy doing flight attendant stuff — there’s a selection of snacks and drinks I would once have regarded with interest — and ask him if he can help me…
