The Myth of "Sex and the City"

The English-speaking world is filled with people ... especially Brits ... who are convinced that "Sex and the City" represents a true portrait of modern womanhood. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at this wild delusion. I'm brought to this thought by two events: a girls' night out and a cut wire.

First, the girls. It's Wednesday night and four old friends gather, not in some trendy New York nightspot but in a trendy pub in Oxfordshire. (Yes, there are trendy pubs in the English countryside. This one looks traditional on the outside, but indoors is a Thai restaurant with black and gold interiors, festooned with modern art and crystal chandeliers.) Beyond the number of women, their relative affluence and the fashionable setting, the similarities between us and Carrie and her gang dwindle quickly.

Two of us are married, one single, one divorced. There's not a Manolo-shod foot in sight, although we do spend some time admiring each others' handbags. Unlike the fictional New York girls, none of us are having frequent, mind-altering sex. The pair without partners are thinking a lot about it but lacking prospect; the married ones are generally too tired to attempt it. Nor, like the TV quartet, are we discussing what sex we've had in lurid detail. Although the smile that went along with one girl's mention of her second honeymoon in Florence said more than any graphic recap could have.

"There's not a Manolo-shod foot in sight, although we do spend some time admiring each others' handbags."

Most of the time we're talking about work, mortgages, household remodelling and mutual friends. Sure, we're talking about men, too. But we're discussing the jobs and ambitions of the husbands, or the potential and peccadilloes of the single girls' recent dates. We're a good deal gentler and more circumspect than our fictional sisters.

Second, the wire.

As little as three years ago, when contemplating the merits of a husband, my fantasies and hopes were still rooted very much in the realms of Jane Austen. Soul mates, emotional rocks, best friends and father figures who would transform your life. OK, I'll acknowledge a debt to Carrie and the girls ... an Earth-shaking physical relationship was on the list, too. Once again, however, reality is pushing up against the myth.

And this morning's reality is the fact that, while trimming the ivy on my garden wall, I cut right through the wire of my outdoor lights. A husband, one imagines, would have that inherent male ability to mess about with a tool box and fix things. I am faced with the ponderous process of calling my handyman, waiting perhaps weeks for him to have a free hour, and paying his hourly rate to mend my second of carelessness. Come to think of it, that will probably cost more than the bloody lights.

"A husband, one imagines, would have that inherent male ability to mess about with a tool box and fix things."

So here's the truth. The myths of sex, love and relationships in my city revolve around men who can fix things, contribute half the mind-numbing mortage and provide cheerful, witty companionship at a dinner party or on holiday. It's not a reality worthy of an hour on HBO, but it's a scenario most women over 35 embrace with delight.