I may have intimated (a time or two) that I grew up in a climate in which a cotton dress and ankle socks were appropriate attire for a little girl pretty much year-round. For really cold weather, I had tights, and all my sweaters were acrylic, since my mother’s and grandmother’s childhoods were a horror-show of scratchy wool.
Thus, I was bemused by stories like those of E. Nesbit, in which children wore woollen combinations, long black woollen stockings, wool dresses, and pinafores. Later, of course, I learned about central heating, or its lack, and why home decor used to feature layers of rugs, velvet curtains pooled on the floor, and other draft-cutting devices.
And here I am, wearing wool tights and a merino pullover under a thermal-knit dress. All I need is the white pinafore. If I had a Psammead, every day I’d wish we could both go spend the day in a nice desert.