Some people are not made for summer. My horror of insects coupled with an extreme reluctance to bare any skin below the neck makes it an unhappy time for me. Generally my sole concession to the warmer months is to wear black tights of a slightly lower denier (#beachready). No, it’s this time of year I love, full of twinkling lights and woodsmoke and thoughts of curling up with a hot drink and a Nancy Mitford novel. I happily fill Pinterest boards with beautiful nightwear, picking out artsy printed dressing-gowns from Toast; blue and white The Snowman pyjama sets; long white nightdresses, the sort you’d wear to venture into forbidden wings by candlelight. My favourite fantasy nightwear though is cosy and luxurious: jewel-coloured slippers to cosset the feet, silk pyjamas fit for a 1930s starlet, and a plush raspberry dressing-gown to make me feel like Noel Coward. If Noel Coward had made fewer devastating remarks and spent more time recumbent under a Slanket watching Jonathan Creek.