Wendyl Nissen: Night frights

It hasn't been the sexiest of winters. Grim-faced women all over town are sharing tales of too much clothing between the sheets, the necessity of layer removal, the reluctance to do so and therefore the absence of sex.

Never before has there been so much discussion about what one wears to bed as we realise that three jumpers, elastic-waist flannelette pants and woolly socks are not exactly the stuff of Victoria's Secret catalogues. We hang our heads in shame, having let the side down this winter, banning our sexy black nighties to the bottom of the drawers as we seek warmth not passion in our bedrooms.

Which is why, after a recent discussion along these lines, I took a look at the other side of the bed and realised that when it comes to bedwear crimes, women are not alone.

Imagine your grandfather in his last years at the rest home. Picture the light blue and white-striped flannelette pyjama shirt, the dark blue piping around the collar, the breast pocket where he conveniently kept his packet of smokes. Now add a large rip along the bottom, remove all the buttons so that it hangs open offering little in the way of warmth, and splatter over it a few ancient coffee stains.

But don't finish there. Put it on a pack a day smoker for 10 years so that it is infused with the stale, oak finish of tobacco, add the odd splash of red wine after a few too many and have a whiff.

This is what I stare at and smell every night - my husband's ancient pyjama shirt.

"It's comfy, it's soft, it helps me sleep," he pleads, doing a very good impression of a toddler with a cuddle rug.

"It stinks, you smell like an old man - and an incontinent old man at that," I respond. "Don't care," he says, rolling over and putting his thumb in his mouth.

Jarmy shirt, as it has become known, has been hidden by me on several occasions. I could never actually throw it out as that would seem heartless and cruel, but kicking it so far under the bed it would not emerge until a rare spring clean seemed okay. As did throwing it in the compost bin. Both times my husband found it and emerged holding it to his heart. "My Jarmy shirt!"

This winter, aware of my displeasure that Jarmy shirt had found its way back from exile in the garden shed, he's taken to hiding it every morning before he goes to work. I can't be bothered trying to find out where. That would be infantile.

And besides we have been here before, my husband and I. There was the pair of khaki shorts which ended up in a similar condition, faded and ripped, coffee and wine-stained, reeking of tobacco - which would have been alright, if one of the holes wasn't situated in the crutch. He also insisted on rolling the legs up so high that they ended up resembling the rompers I used to wear for PE at intermediate school. All tight at the top of the thigh and then billowing out like a balloon over your bum.

The flannel shirts he was so fond of when we first met, which gave him a faint air of Russell Crowe, were all wrong in the early 90s and even worse in the next decade when I finally ripped them up for use as dusters.

There were also the boat shoes, footwear last seen when we cared about the America's Cup and now only occasionally spied on ageing wharf rats at Auckland's Viaduct whose wives should know better.

These items were disposed of after a series of discussions which centred around the premise that I wouldn't be seen dead within 5cm of them.

He, of course, has never had a problem with any article of my wardrobe. Because that would be deemed insensitive, callous and offensive.

If only I could find that bright red bra, those white jeans and that nifty little purple waistcoat.