DAMN THE ROOTS

Tonight we had the chance of a lifetime - to be in the same room as all of the All Blacks and all of the Spring Boks and a few politicians...

We wanted to make our mark - find out if older women were the new black in sexual attraction. We had on our bloodiest red lippy and encased ourselves in the finest examples of gravity defying undergarments to give us that edge.

We were primped and preened and ready to see if we could catch an AB or at least catch their eye.

We were the lonely outrider in a herd of sylphic pulchritude .

It was gonna be tough.

We puffed out our ample bosum nestled in a sheen of netting and flicked our shiny locks. The creme de la creme of rugby, brushed passed us, went around us ( that took a wee while) and nary a glance did we get.

Then our heart stopped as we caught Wayne Smith casting an appreciative glance at our stout frame, only to look around to find that the glance was meant for lovely MP and fashion princess Nikki Kaye.

We were not deterred. We shifted position, laughed our tinkly come hither laugh and wiggled our booty - more lovely boys swung passed us in a conger line and still no lascivious glances or even a sly goose of our ample arse.

Suddenly even flea bitten former politicians like Roger Sowry looked good. Sir Doug McKinnon said hello. We thought that we were in. Then he started to talk soccer with some boring fart.

We were desperate for affirmation of our mature womanhood. Even the waiters were looking cute. Our fingers lingered as one handed us another glass of Oyster Bay. He shivered as he scuttled off.

Then suddenly out of the mist of men a 6'5" glorious rugby boy sidled past, and slowed - we waited breathless for the throaty "gidday."

He looked down and we looked up in abject expectation.

" You need your roots done" he said as he headed to the door and freedom

We sloped off into that dark night... bereft...

Cougar we are not..