Is This £1,000 Dressing Gown Worth The Price Tag? ROSIE GREEN Finds Out

I should start by saying I’m allergic to dressing gowns. So unflattering. So cumbersome. So domestic. A hop, skip and a jump away from a velour housecoat, which itself is style suicide.

There is nothing sexy about a dressing gown. If pushed I might consider a cashmere one, but, honestly, if I have a spare £500 it’s not going on that. Kimono style is OK. Ish. A bit art teacher-y for me. Fluffy cotton robes are acceptable in spas. Ditto waffle iterations. Fleece-y styles are not acceptable. Not even on children.

Practically, they aren’t great, either. Cuffs get wet, fronts stained, belt ends dangle down the loo.

I have plenty of friends who take off their bras as soon as they get home and slip into their ‘comfies’, which includes donning a robe. If this is you, I’m not judging – each to their own – but I’d rather sauna with Kim Jong Un Jong U.

Such is my dislike, I couldn’t stomach a partner who wore one. I googled David Gandy on his Wellwear brand’s website and even he doesn’t model its dressing gowns. I can say, with authority, he looks pleasing in the T-shirt, though.

So why am I here, looking delighted with myself, in Shleep’s fleece robe? It was the sky-high price that caught my eye and I decided, in the interests of journalism, I needed to review whether it was worth the £1,045 being charged for it.

‘I dare not eat anything in it in case of stains’

At more than 50 times the cost of Sainsbury’s version, it’s sold by the Queen’s favoured chemist, John Bell & Croyden (Boots but posher), which confusingly is in Marylebone and not South London. I asked Shleep founder Indi why it costs so much and she says it’s a combination of the highest-quality materials (merino wool from the finest Australian sheep plus silk) and the unique knitting and blending fabrication.

I’m a sucker for luxury and still maintain a perhaps misguided belief that a higher price means a better product. I was hoping the eye-watering cost would mean the robe was warm, flattering, chic and maybe wearable outside, mitigating the cost a bit.

It arrives at the office and I unzip the garment bag with excitement. I’m instantly a little disappointed. It isn’t super-soft or luxurious-looking. I’d originally thought it might be shearling, and somehow as light as a feather. But no. It’s a fleecy-feeling fabric. My colleague Alice says it looks like it’s from Asda. I am annoyed it doesn’t have belt loops.

I cart it home on the train.

Maybe it’s flattering, I muse. I try it on for my 18-year-old daughter – my most vocal style critic. She’s not impressed and makes no attempt to purloin it, which I take as a bad sign. But as a vegetarian, she is appreciative it’s not animal skin.

That evening I wear it to watch TV. I have to concede it is very, very warm. Which is useful as I live in a draughty cottage with a dismal energy performance rating.

I dare not eat anything in it in case of stains. I consider buying a hazmat-style paper suit to wear over it to avoid such eventualities, but think it would have to come in Fijian rugby player size to fit over the bulk.

I wear it in the kitchen to do the usual pre-bed tidy-up. Because the robe I’m reviewing is cream and I’m wary of getting baked-bean remnants on it, I roll the sleeves up to avoid disasters, but the thickness of the fabric restricts my movement.

So, is there any way to justify the cost? The company’s ethical and sustainable commitments seem legitimate. Plus, it is made from a natural material rather than petroleum – the main element of supermarket fleeces.

Next morning I wake up early and work on my laptop. Instead of pulling on my usual knit I reach for the robe. It’s so warm I get too hot – inconceivable for me. I take it to my boyfriend’s house and sit in his kitchen, which I call the tundra. I have to take it off. He looks relieved I’m not complaining about the temperature, but his loins are definitely not stirring.

I won’t be making a purchase. But then I don’t think I’m the target market. That will be rich, skinny heiresses who live in draughty houses and have an aversion to chemicals – not single mothers who have to deal with bin juice.

Picture editor: Stephanie Belingard.

Hair: John Katsikiotis.

Make-up: Aimee Adams