The moment I pulled the fuzzy fabric out of its bag, I was transported through time. I was no longer a 28-year-old in my London flat; I was 11 again, in suburban Canada, and it was school picture day. When I pulled the jumper on and looked in the mirror, I could practically smell my coconut-oiled hair that had once fallen past my exposed shoulders. I remembered my peach-fuzz moustache, my big, curious eyes, and the FM radio that played from my alarm clock as I got dressed — no notifications or news feeds or adult responsibilities to think of.