One of my favourite words in the world, aside from the German for armbands (schwimmflügel, literally swimming wings), is the Russian word halatnost, which means dressing-gownness. This beautiful word was bestowed on the Russian people by Ivan Goncharov in Oblomov, Tolstoy’s favourite book.

The word has come to mean negligence, but archaically (the novel was published in 1859), halatnost equalled lazing around reading the papers on a weekend, mooching about the house, doing not much at all. Maybe a touch of ennui, a lot of daydreaming. The life of the robed gentry: Oblomov is a nobleman who fails to move from his bedroom in the first 50 pages of Goncharov’s book.

The halat in halatnost is all important. One makes big decisions in life: to have kids or not, where to put down roots. But up there, frankly, is finding the perfect dressing gown. Or, if you’re northern and of a certain age, housecoat. If you’re literal-minded, a bathrobe – but we all know that’s limiting its potential.

Give me a big, fluffy dressing gown that’s like cuddling in a cloud or bathing in marshmallow. A dressing gown with a belt that wraps around you three times for safety. One with deep pockets in which to hold the world’s minutiae (and After Eight wrappers at Christmas). A dressing gown with a hood that makes you feel you could fight the world and win. A salmon-coloured robe in which to read the FT. A floor-length white one that reminds you of glorious sex in expensive hotels. Or a too small bobbled dressing gown – Liverpool FC red – that you wore when watching the Match Of The Day repeat at the crack of dawn. An embossed smoking jacket, with matching slippers, sitting on a chesterfield, with a roaring fire and a brandy. A satin kimono for summer, which begs to belong to someone who wears sexier nightwear.

When most people think of an “investment piece”, they think Mulberry handbag, Burberry scarf. I am thinking: dressing gown (but also Burberry scarf). A good dressing gown lasts decades, like a habit. One of the first written mentions of a dressing gown was in the 1660s diaries of Samuel Pepys (“my new gowne of purple shagg, trimmed with gold, very handsome”). Pepys knew.

Now I have found the perfect dressing gown. And – I am so sorry – it is from Soho Home, the homeware offshoot of Soho House. It was £65, but it’s worth it. I could spend £65 on a night out I don’t remember and not have a dressing gown to recover in the next morning. I think I made the correct choice.

Some of the Worst People (specifically, men) have tried to bring the dressing gown down (Hefner, Trump, Weinstein), but I won’t allow it. In the current state of the world, it’s reassuring to know I have what is basically a comfort blanket with sleeves on the back of my bedroom door.