I wore pyjamas for two flights and a seven-hour stopover. I had no choice

They were packed for a night in Wadi Rum Jordan, where we thought it would be cold – wrong, we had air-conditioning.

“Really?” I think, but I’m desperate, so I change into the oversized pyjamas with a faded kangaroo emblazoned on the front, Qantas written on the back, and give my shoe one last blast of hot air.

I venture out – self-conscious at first. My husband threatens to take an Instagram shot but one look and he rethinks.

Immaculately dressed Philippine Airlines staff smile radiantly as I board, but I do detect a discreet dress scan.

That “kangaroo” is a dead giveaway and a fellow passenger, who has watched my coffee antics in the lounge, comments – “at least you don’t have to get changed” for bedtime.

And no, I don’t miss performing contortionist moves that are required when changing in a tiny loo.

I settle into my business class flat bed that was half the price of bigger name airlines and feel liberated knowing I won’t have to make a mad dash to change before landing.

Seven hours later we are in Manila for an eight-hour stopover and me and my PJs are getting along just fine.

I watch what people are wearing at the airport – self-harmed jeans are popular, stretchy tracksuit pants, denim shorts that really are too short and dresses of varying length, some showing a tad too much flesh at either end, are big in the travel fashion stakes.

The days of glamour travel aren’t making a comeback in a hurry and who am I to talk? I am leading the throng.

My late mother and grandmother, devotees of fashion and polished grooming, were travel fashionistas long before the term was invented.

Be it ship, train or plane – matching handbags and polished shoes, chic suits and elegant dresses were given an outing. I shudder to think what they would say now.

Three flights down and more than 13969.11 kilometres and I am still in my PJs, but plan to grab clothes from my suitcase after we clear customs at Melbourne Airport.

Bad idea – seems our suitcases are still holidaying in Cairo. My airtag shows they are across the road from an Egyptian coffee lounge and are a no show. So, PJs remain on.

On our four-hour drive to Albury, I run into a service station for a sandwich and come face-to-face with someone in a onesie and immediately feel connected.

Later a neighbour drops by – her first question? Not how was Egypt and Jordan but “why are you dressed in pyjamas?”

Editor’s note – for those readers asking “Who spilt the coffee?“, here’s an update from Sue Wallace: “Unfortunately it was me! No one to blame – I picked it up with gusto and spilt it all over me.”