Frances Burscough: How Sex and the City ruined my love affairs

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Thursday, May 15, 2008

Sex and the City has a lot to answer for, and its leading lady Sarah Jessica Parker more than all of the cast put together. I blame her quite specifically for my disastrous track record with men in the last few years.

It has been a sore point for quite a while, but now, having finally met a wonderful man at last, (Oh yea, let the bells ring out!) I feel able to talk about it and hopefully "get closure" as her TV character Carrie Bradshaw would say.

As anyone who has read my column will know, I spent the first few years after my marriage break-up attempting to find a new, improved Mr Right.

This wasn't easy. At 40, most people of a similar age were married and settled, I was working from home and living in Bangor — the retirement capital of Ireland — so eligible men were few and far between or supported by a Zimmer frame.

So, for a while, I 'put the email back in female' and joined an online dating website to cast my net a little further afield into cyberspace.

As a result, over the course of the next few months I made a shortlist — a bit like a Human Resource Officer of Lurve, drawing up a list of candidates for interview — and one by one we met for coffee and a chat.

I subsequently discovered that 21st Century Man appears to get most of his insider information on the female psyche by watching repeats of Sex and the City on Sky. Here is one typical such conversation:

He: So ... what do you do for a living then?

Me: Well, actually I'm a freelance feature writer. I write stuff for women's magazines and newspapers.

He: (Surprised I'm not a dumb blonde) Oh really? That sounds interesting. What sort of things do you write about? Cookery?... Fashion? ... Flower arranging? Ha ha.

Me: (Could he be more patronising?) No, not usually. I write a kind of diary column ... about life as a single woman and single mum living in Northern Ireland and all that it entails.

He: What — like that girl Carrie out of Sex and the City, then?

Me: No not really. Well a bit, maybe ... but without the sex, obviously, or I wouldn't be here! (Oh NO, why did I say that? It sounds like I'm asking for sex!)

He: (Bloody Hell, she's forward! Talking about sex before we've even started drinking our coffee?!) Well you don't need to look any further. I might just be able to remedy that ... ha ha!

Me: (Horrified by his cocky assumption and desperate to backtrack) Sorry, I didn't mean that ... What I meant was I don't write about sex ... but I do sometimes write about relationships and dating and that kind of thing ...

He: Oh ... right ... so dishing the dirt on men then? Hmmm ... that could be worrying ...

Me: (In your dreams! You've got no chance you cheeky sod) Possibly, sometimes ... Goodness, look at the time! Shall we get the bill?

That was just one typical scenario. Another I experienced went off on a different but equally awkward tangent:

He: So you write a column ... Northern Ireland's answer to Carrie Bradshaw, then!

Me: (Here we go again ...) Not exactly. I'm nothing like her!

He: Ah ... so which character would you be like, then? (please say Samantha please say Samantha!)

Me: (He obviously wants me to say Samantha, the sex addict!) Erm ... Miranda is the closest, I reckon. (out of badness, although I'm nothing like her either)

He: (Damn, the feminist ball-breaker!) That's a shame, she's my least favourite! Ach well ... Goodness, look at the time! Shall we get the bill?

Despite my uncomfortable associations, I will of course be going to see the new movie. But I won't be going with my boyfriend. He's never seen Sex and the City or joined a dating website, which suits me just fine.