I couldn't believe it when Carrie married Mr Big -- how could she trust a man who had dumped her for a model and moved from the Big Apple to California to avoid her? I am not a bit surprised she is rumoured to have an affair with ex-love and dishy carpenter Aidan in the new movie -- Big was getting a bit unappealing anyway, he'd had heart surgery and was a cheat-in-love, hardly the stuff of a romantic hero now is it?
What else do I care about in the new upcoming SATC movie? I care that Miranda and Steve have survived the settling-in phase of their marriage, and are giving little Brady some playmates. I care that Samantha has survived cancer and is rumoured to be getting married, because she is getting on a bit now and I want her settled with a sexy man who will be understanding when her joints ache -- although with all her exercise she'll probably be supple for a while yet.
I care that Charlotte gets pregnant because all she ever wanted in life was a happy family and she already has the fab Upper East side apartment -- I don't know how Sarah Jessica Parker ever settled for a West Village studio as the lead character, and a couple of dozen pairs of fancy shoes. You gotta get the big trailer Bradshaw. . .
I remember interviewing the hugely successful New York chick-lit author Adriana Trigiani and her telling me that she and her family share a brownstone in Greenwich Village with Michael Patrick King, co-creator of Sex and the City -- she downstairs, him upstairs. They are best friends. They throw the best St Patrick's Day party in New York because he is Irish (you know, the way Americans are).
"You got my life bitch," I wanted to say to her. I want the house, and I want as a best friend the man who came up with the idea of making a TV series out of Candace Bushnell's book about four friends hanging out in my favourite city in the world, and giving them very funny dialogue.
It's always been the dialogue for me. I couldn't walk in a pair of Manolos to save my life, having flat feet, and haven't got the charm it takes to hold a cosmopolitan cocktail in my hand and not look like I wasn't checking out the slice of lime on the rim of the glass for pips.
Yes, the characters are caricatures of single women looking for love, hammed up for fun and laughs, and blinged up to the nines so that they look more out there than the gay male wardrobe mistress. It's not the point -- the point is there is truth in their humour.
Michael Patrick King and his crew of writers had the chutzpah to tackle the issues on the minds of women and which women before had only ever discussed amongst themselves (the first series was broadcast in 1998) -- or later anonymously on chat boards or on dodgy TV chat shows on which people take off their clothes. The scripts were audaciously funny -- and every now and then they still get it right.
I'm looking forward to the chat after seeing the movie -- how good the movie is, how crap it is -- let's face it, the first one wasn't so terrific and this is even more of a 'let's milk the last drop out of this cash cow'.
The point is, the chat will be trivial -- no recession, no root canal treatment, no negative equity, no volcanic ash. If we're discussing wrinkles, they'll be SJP's.
Women have complained that SATC2 will feature four women prancing around in Abu Dhabi and dolled up in Prada -- and will be watched by women in recessionary Dublin wearing Penneys (some in pajamas). Unless I'm missing the point, isn't escapism the whole point of chick flicks?