Only four fabulous days left until the Irish premiere of my favourite hysteria-fest. Time for cocktails at the Morrison with the girls, aka my home-grown version of Charlotte, Samantha and Miranda.
Get a phone call from Charlotte (I think her real name might be Siobhan?). She just woke up in a stranger's home in Malahide. He has Star Trek memorabilia everywhere. Is Dublin full of freaks, I ask the camera in my head, as I light a cigarette and wait for the credits to roll?
Siobhan -- let's just call her Charlotte for the sake of convenience -- is distraught. The Trekkie freak still hasn't called.
"I've been dating since I was 15, where is he?" she asks hopefully.
Meet for an emergency brunch at The Odessa club. "Have you tried a foursome with two female Brazilian trapeze artists dressed as Klingons?" Samantha wants to know.
She's so sassy.
We queue for hours at the Savoy on O'Connell Street and not one of the real SATC girls shows up . . . but we do spot Anne Doyle.
We all have sore heads today, so we meet for another emergency brunch in Odessa.
It turns out, Charlotte's getting married next week to that Trekkie freak! She thinks his name's Dave.
OMG, times really are a-changing. Are we really creatures of habit, deep down, I ask my imaginary camera, chewing a piece of Nicorette gum.
(I quit the fags. A sassy fortysomething does not smoke. Fact.)