How a kaftan nearly killed me.

Today is Mr Woog’s birthday, making me officially no longer a cougar for 6 months. To celebrate, I took myself off to town yesterday.

First stop was at the Opera House, where I checked out the new Collette Dinnigan for Target range. It is a little collection of ballet clothes for girls. It was too sweet for words.

I asked the ladies from Target whether Collette would consider whipping this up in a size 16 for me.


They didn’t say anything and then I realised that Colette possibly would have a heart attack at the thought. 

Next stop was into the city where I spotted a nice kaftan that was calling my name. It was Leona Edmiston and navy, which is far kinder for this old girls complexion than black. I took it into the change room to get intimate with it, and it was at this point that things started to go wrong.

It had a cami that was attached to the kaftan by the shoulders with little press studs. It took me the best part of ten minutes to undo the puzzle that became my arms and head. At one point I was on the verge of a panic attack, seeing nothing but blue poly-nasty-silk swirling around in front of my eyes, with the occasional flash of silver sequin.

Eventually, I sorted myself out. My hair was standing on end due to the static electrical situation I had created due to my vigorous panic . I smoothed down my hair and took the required snap to send off to The Divine Ms M, so she could approve the purchase.

some hair would not lie down. The mani situation is DIRE.

I turned side on to do the requisite ass check when I realised that I was somewhat sausage-esque in it. Cling city. No thank you!

And so began the epic adventure of removing the kaftan.

20 minutes later, and I was ready to depart the change room, kaftan in hand, ready to return to the rack. I reached for the handle and basically got an electrical shock that stopped my heart for a minute.

It was the kaftan’s final “FUCK YOU”.

And that is how a kaftan nearly killed me.

The End.