It was scenario I'm sure you're familiar with. It was a Sunday afternoon and I had taken up residency on the couch after quite a big night on the slightly distressed tiles of east London. I had just indulged in a carb buffet of baked beans on toast followed by more pieces of bread with cheese on it that I had stolen out our communal fridge. 'Come Dine with Me' wasn’t on for another couple of hours so I reached for the box set of Sex and the City. I ended up watching eight episodes. At 30 mins a pop that’s four hours.
When I told my friend about this she told me off saying she read an article about women that start to identify with Carrie. They feel like dysfunctional relationships are normal and spend too much on shoes. After hearing this I totally freaked as after my marathon I had gone out and brought some shoes, they weren’t exactly Manolo Blahnik high heels, they were a pair of £10 flats from New Look on Brixton high street, but shoes all the same. Then I realized that I had started putting all my thoughts in to rhetorical questions…’I couldn’t help but wonder, did my life need an emotional spring clean?’…’I began to wonder how do you actually pronounce Tzatziki?...
So now I am prescribing myself some hard-hitting docos on dinner party hot potatoes like war, religion, politics and stuff. Anything that doesn’t feature fake flower corsages and women talking about relationships over egg white omelets. ‘I wondered though would this be enough to get the curly haired gal to stop narrating my life?...
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