Wendyl Nissen: Quits on the knits

I broke the drought and went out to lunch for the first time in weeks on Wednesday.

But first I had to explain to my drab, green cardy, which I have worn every day for a month, that he couldn't come.

He couldn't understand that lunch was something I did outside the home and was therefore not appropriate for a cardy that makes me look like Miss Marple when she is knitting socks, not solving crimes.

"But I've been to Foodtown!" he objected strongly. "And that time you dropped Pearl off at hip-hop."

I don't know why drab, green cardy is masculine, but he is. Possibly something to do with the fact that if you put him on a man, accessorised with a pipe and slippers, he could look quite distinguished - in a 60s Mad Men way.

"I know you did, but that was only when I could be sure no one would see you," I argued rationally. "Please don't get me wrong, I love you, I couldn't live without you on cold mornings at my desk, but there are some places it is not safe for you to visit."

Drab, green cardy glared at me from the pile of clothes in the bedroom.

"I am your muse," he grumbled. "I am the cloak of your creativity. Without me you are nothing."

He spat that last word, with an emphasis on the "na", flinging the "thing" in my face.

He was far too aware of my recent slip in appearance. Days spent padding around with no makeup, unwashed hair and grubby slippers, immersed in the new winter look he had cruelly dubbed "rest-home chic".

"You used to make an effort; the fine Indian cotton dresses, the gorgeous earrings you wore all summer which you found in that Moroccan souk," taunted drab, green cardy. "Before you let yourself go, became all reclusive and made me your fashion victim."

"I would watch it if I were you," I said. "For a $20 Ezibuy clearance garment, you have a lot of points on yourself."

But there was some truth in what he had to say. Winter dressing leaves little to inspire a woman once you get past the enthusiasm of donning those flattering black tights and the camel coat you really only get to wear for a few weeks in July. The rest belongs in the vague realms of layers incorporating spencers, anything with merino in it, bulky jumpers and cardies, and pants which hopefully still fit after the excesses of summer.

"Quite frankly it's been a while since you wore those black pants and someone should tell you that it's been a while since you fitted them as well," noted drab, green cardy.

"Now that is just being mean," I told him.

On my return from lunch, refreshed and invigorated by my rare outing, I gratefully disrobed, eager to get back into my comfort clothes, including drab, green cardy.

But he was nowhere to be found. Not under the bed or on the pile of clothes on the floor.

I half-heartedly looked in the wardrobe, knowing full well I rarely hang clothes up, let alone cardies. I was distraught, missing his comfort and warmth, craving his funny old pockets containing the half-eaten biscuit I was saving for later.

"Hi mum," said my daughter, anxious to see what the commotion was at the end of the hall and munching a half-eaten biscuit I vaguely recognised.

And there he was. Comforting and warming my daughter.

"My cardy!" I shouted.

"Lovely, isn't he," she cooed. "I love him," she continued, stroking his arms softly.

Drab, green cardy was strangely silent for once - no doubt looking forward to his upcoming hip-hop class and hours spent hanging out with a bunch of 11-year-old girls and singing along to Lady Gaga.

"Keep him," I told my daughter, hoping he was listening. "He did nothing for me anyway. Now where is my nice new merino pashmina?"

"Are we off to SPQR now?" purred the pashmina.