Mrs Woog. Fashion Reporter. kind of……

On Friday evening I gave up a night on the couch and peeled off my black trackies and replaced them with black pants. I slapped a brush though my hair, did the best I could do with my face. I looked, disappointingly, at the mirror, shrugged my shoulders and headed out into the night.

I was running with the Sydney Fash Pack, attending the Camilla show at the Sydney Fashion Festival, which is like a smaller, illegitimate cousin of the annual Australian Fashion Week. With court side ticked provided by V Australia, (Next time send airline tickets please!), tickets arriving only just in time thanks to my new BFF style icon Melissa Hoyer. Yes Mel, I am now your official stalker and CAN come to your birthday party! Just let me know the time, date and venue. Previous invite must have been lost in the pesky snail mail again.

I met my sister Mrs Ryan, whose sense of fashion made sure she stood out in the crowd, being only slightly more questionable than my own. Side note – denim jackets should be banned.

We walked into the Grand Hall at Sydney Town Hall only to be totally ignored by the waiting paparazzi. “Don’t you know who I am? I am uberblogger Mrs Woog! Tens of people read my offerings every day – well then fuck you all!”

I then decided to make sure the event ran at a loss. Mrs Ryan and I barged our way through dozens of legitimate Sydney Fashionistas and made an assault on the bar unlike had ever been seen before. As expected, the food was extremely scarce and was only being offered to the people who looked like they were on their last legs. Parmesan Foam on an organic crudites anyone?

But I was there to critique the show, not the food (massive FAIL).

As we took out seats, I noticed my friend Mel sitting next to Nacho Pop, who was wearing one on those awful hats… you know the kind……..

Side-note – why do bad asses always pose for photos holding their pits??

Mrs Ryan asked “Who is he?” and I expertly replied “He is a very famous singer… I am so surprised you have never heard of him. You must get out of the burbs more often. But leave that jacket at home next time.”

The young lass eavesdropping next to me then informed me that he was NOT a singer, but a dancer. And she knew this because she knows him, and sometimes he is a DJ. I asked how old she was, She was 20. I then asked how old Nacho Pop was and she replied “He is old, I think he is 26.” I promptly turned my back on her, thus relinquishing any possibility of ever meeting Mr Pop.

Camilla is famous for creating beautiful kaftans, which in my expert opinion should be our national costume. I love them for so many reasons. You can eat a big lunch and not have to undo your button. No infected elastic lines! You can feel super skinny swathed in beautiful silk. And the colour and patterns allow you to rub in bits of guacamole that may fall onto your bosom while partaking in cocktail hour at Ku De Ta, rather than having to go back to your villa to change.

The thing I like about these best of all, is there are NO SIZES! They fit everyone, unless you are a true hefferlump. She sent down tall Amazonian models but also a regular chick my mum’s age who totally rocked the catwalk barefoot. Loved it.

After the show, I congratulated her mum who was sitting right near me. I was like “oh my god you must be so proud that was amazing have you got any kaftans you don’t wear anymore because I will totally take them off your hands who does your hair as it is amazing do you garden in your kaftan?

She looked over my shoulder and nodded at someone and we were promptly escorted out by a large man of giant proportions.

So ended my night at the Sydney Fashion Festival. Slightly tipsy but so inspired to wobble my body this summer in a Camilla Kaftan. If you would like me to realise this dream, please send money… and lots of it.