Sex in the City
The mid-week report by the respected trade paper Variety that the TV hit Sex in the City will draw to a close after its sixth series, with the final show being broadcast in early 2004, unleashed a tsunami of farewell commentary, almost all fawningly complimentary. Time, then, for a counterblast.
Right away, I have to admit that I've seen only one episode of the show. I'm not a very big television watcher, see. Never have been. Anyway, I have to say I just didn't get it. I mean, what is the appeal of these spoiled women, always pining for romance and commitment and then whining about their men's inadequate sexual techniques? In a recent interview, Kim Cattrall, who plays the man-eating Samantha, explained the show's success thus: "It's been a real long time since women have really had the chance to talk about their sexuality and their personal secrets and desires, and phobias in an arena like this." What utter inanity. Does "an arena like this" mean a million-dollar sitcom with Prada shoes? Is she, like, for real?
There's horror and humour attached to dating in New York, but don't expect to hear about it from the unhappy heroines of Sex in the City. Anyway, the demise of the series may be too soon foretold as HBO has said that it would welcome its creators changing their minds and continuing. And there is the precedent set by the cast and producers of Friends as an example of the end not really meaning the end. Their show had been written off by NBC but the six central cast members confirmed in December they would reunite for a 10th series. The pay packet of $1 million each will ease the trauma no doubt.
Diarist of the day: Liane de Pougy, 11 January 1920"Like every morning, I have had my enema, in order to preserve a clear skin and sweet breath. It is a family habit, approved of by Dr Pinard. One of Maman's old great-aunts, the beautiful Madame Rhom賬 died at the age of ninety and a half with a complexion of lilies and roses, skin like a child's. She took her little enema, it seems, at five o'clock every evening, so that she would sleep very well. She did it cheerfully in public. She would simply stand in front of the fireplace; her servant would come in discreetly, armed with the loaded syringe; Madame Rhomè³ would lean forward gracefully so that her full skirts lifted gracefully, one two there, and it was done! Conversation was not interrupted. After a minute or two my beautiful ancestress would disappear briefly, soon to return with the satisfaction of a duty performed."
