Under the tree last Christmas was a thick and soft parcel. You are never too old, in my opinion, to give presents a good squeeze before opening, to try and work out what might be hiding inside. The parcel was from my lovely mother, and inside was a new dressing gown. I’d mentioned a few months previously that mine had been in need of repair, and she kindly remembered, and treated me to a thick, fluffy, ankle length robe in a glorious shade of creamy white.
Wearing it made me realise quite how wonderful dressing gowns are. An oversized blanket to wrap around yourself first thing in the morning, a soft cuddle to warm you out when you get out of the shower, and a swathe of comfort before bed. I prefer them on the larger side, and long enough to swish around my ankles like a cape, making me feel far more regal than I look as I stroll downstairs in the mornings. I start each morning in the same way, I extract myself from under my cosy duvet, bracing myself for the January chill, only to be quickly rescued by the warmth of my dressing gown. I make tea and sit down for a few minutes to drink it before starting my day, all the while staying cosy as though draped in the softest of blankets. One of the simplest of joys, but one that I love!