My mum had a housecoat when I was a child.

It was blue, or maybe green, and made from a fabric best described as "devoid of warmth or insulation". It used to hang on the back of the bathroom door on a bronze hook, on top of my dad's terry towelling one.

I remember she would put it on every morning before making us breakfast and getting us dressed. It would waft down the hall behind her as she ferried shirts, skirts and tights from the bedroom I shared with my sister to the kitchen fireplace where we would always huddle in our towels.

For a time my sister and I both had a housecoat too. I don't recall much about hers but mine was a Christmas present, a scarlet red silky thing that quite frankly had little right hanging in the children's or teenage section of any shop. I think it was from Marks & Spencer.

Aged about 15 years old I parted company with that housecoat – it wasn't cool any longer. Housecoats didn't seem cool any longer, and even though no-one would have ever seen me in mine, it was time to let it go. Even my mum gave hers up some time soon after that. My dad didn't though, he still wears one to this day.

Recently I found myself hankering after a housecoat once again. Nothing slinky, just something to keep me warm when the radiators in our flat have failed to do their duty, which at this time of the year is quite often.

In the end I plumped for a dusky pink fluffy towelling one. The choice, to be honest, had little to do with style and everything to do with cosiness. Yet in spite of its humble cut, simple shape and giant towelling hood (not cool) I love my housecoat and I've vowed to never be apart from it or its successor again.