Dressing gown

Of all my clothes, my dressing gown is the one love the best and the one that works hardest. I have pretty little wraps in the wardrobe, simple white cotton ones for summer and slinky ones with matching nighties for weekends away, but a dressing gown isn't a wrap. A dressing gown is for comfort, and you can't be comfortable in something that is constantly coming undone. A dressing gown isn't for display. It's for concealment and warmth and protection.

My dressing gown is big and grey and fleecy. It's pretty much like what Friar Tuck would have worn, but without the constraint of a rope round the middle. It goes from throat to wrist and to ankle. It's baggy and hides everything underneath - the wobbly bits and the tatty underwear and, on cold days, all the other bits and pieces put on for warmth rather than fashion.

When I've been out in the evening - especially if it's been somewhere posh, or for work rather than pleasure - then the dressing gown is the second thing to go on when I get back, after the kettle, and before I make the tea and the fried egg sandwich.

The dressing gown is not only coverall, but also overall. Being grey, it doesn't show the dirt (not too badly) and the sleeves come in very handy when you notice dust on the dado rail, or smears around the light switch that need a bit of spit and a rub. It doesn't snag, so it's pretty good when you have to comb the cat and get the fleas out. A bit of fur doesn't show. In fact, even quite a lot of fur doesn't show. Not much. It's just what's wanted when there is a fried breakfast to cook (no point doing that in some flimsy little negligee that's always falling open). It does for running down the garden and getting the washing in when it suddenly starts to rain, or in the middle of the night when the caterwauling starts.

But more than all the practical stuff, my dressing gown is a great big comfort blanket. Forget about breastplates of righteousness, if I'm in my dressing-gown I am safe from evil of all kinds.