Going down a bomb

I don’t know why it hadn’t dawned on me that Sex and the City (the film) is about a wedding. Anyway, I went to see it with a girlfriend last night which is when I realised that I hadn’t been paying attention to all the publicity.

So did I enjoy it? Sort of. I was never a great fan of the tv shows (too old, if truth be told - and why do younger generations always think they were the first to talk dirty and enjoy sex?) Still, there were some clever lines and Carrie’s outfits were fascinating in an “how could she possibly go out dressed like that” kind of way.

The film was more of the same, only too long and less well observed. But I loved the Westwood wedding dress and the dead bird hat. And it’s clearly going down a bomb (which is more than Samantha was, for once).

We went to the early evening showing (another sign of advancing years) and had the cinema virtually to ourselves. Apart from two brave men with their partners. the rest of the audience was made up of a handful of women of a certain age plus a couple of ladies who I doubt will see 80 again. They thoroughly enjoyed the naked sex scenes, tutting vigorously and muttering to each other.

When we came out, though, there was long queue snaking round the foyer. All women. Mostly 20, 30 and 40-somethings. Clearly the film is a hit.

I was tempted to suggest we found somewhere to sip a cocktail or two. But you’re more likely to find cola than cosmopolitans in the gastronomic wasteland that is the Finchley leisure centre and no-one had had the entrepreneurial drive to realise that a special promotion to link with the film would have had the cash registers ringing, given that so many females were on a girlie night out.

So we went home and opened a bottled of rioja instead