Me and the City

I love this coat... Apparently it's a vintage number from SJP's wardrobe, so I can't buy one. Carrie wears it in the episode of Sex and the City where Miranda and Steve marry, and Samantha tells the girls she has breast cancer. I think it's the one she wears when Miranda's son is born and she breaks up with Aidan, as well.

OK, so it's not Shakespeare and it won't change the world, but so what? So many memories of mine are tangled up in SATC. I watched and drank and watched and cried and watched and laughed. R and I used to talk on the phone religiously after each episode, like drug addicts comparing their visions, I imagine.

I don't expect many people will understand, and does it even matter? But that series was definitive for me. When I watch it, it takes me back to the large living room of the flat I owned, alone, for eight years. The room where far too many bottles of vin rouge were imbibed as candles burned dangerously down to their wicks and I awoke in a haze, just about able to get to the shower and then bed. Phone conversations were long, every detail was important and bedtime didn't matter. Now, I'm alone at home as S makes his way back from evening cricket practice with a new amateur team. He sounded peeved at the prospect of getting home late, knowing I'll be in bed (and who knows, possibly asleep!) by the time his key turns in the lock.

Anyway, I have eaten fairly well (salmon with dill sauce, olives, antipasti, garlic bread), drunk a bit of wine and finished with some tiramisu left over from the neighbours' no-show. All this while I watched Coronation Street (two episodes), Eastenders, America's Next Top Model and Sex and the City (two episodes). Yes, it's the cerebral equivalent of a big Mac and fries washed down with a bottle of full fat Coke. Fan-fucking-tastic.