I live in a flat I can’t afford. I have a walk in wardrobe full of Patricia Field inspired Primark. I smoke and think it’s cool as I slag off men to women scoffing with empathetic laughter. I openly discuss menstruation cycles, weight gain, weight loss and ingrown hair inflicted nipple-scabs. I also make a point of always rushing through congested high streets, coyly smiling at every businessman I serendipitously bump into. Closeness with my female friends is paramount; I’ll often reinforce friendships, this will usually involve asking for assistance in removing a used condom from the depths of my cervix.
I live by the testaments of SJP. I change my email signature to JRD and ask my hairdresser to make me blonde. He refuses so I purchase a box of hair dye with what could be a picture of Carrie on the front. Within 3 weeks I suffer from such extreme hair loss I’m forced to have a Simon Cowell crop. Astonished to discover you can have real Swedish children’s hair melted onto yours for a reasonable 150quid per square inch, my depression subsides. I call Steve at Lloyds TSB and soon find myself sipping on a skinny latte to digest that my agreed overdraft doesn’t cover the cost of my scalp’s surface area. Luckily, the use of wigs and hair pieces are becoming commonplace among fashionistas - if it’s good enough for Lady Gaga and Cheryl Cole it’s good enough for JRD. I now have long plastic hair, but haunted by my gay best friend’s observations “Your legs look like they have no blood running through them” I know it’s time to up my game. After all, how could I wear miniskirts in the snow without an all-American tan? Within days I’m reciting “it’s not jaundice, it’s Johnson’s Holiday Skin” to passers-by as I chain-smoke on my doorstep. Yellow and bald I retreat indoors, whimsically looking out of my sash window (just like hers). The phone doesn’t ring, the girls don’t arrive unexpectedly with comedy porn and take-away noodles. I’m all alone clothed in some bloke’s shirt and a pearl necklace. As fag ash drops to my laptop I come to accept I can never be a Carrie due to the width of my thighs.
Instead of empowerment I get piles from too much anal sex.
Perhaps I’d got it all wrong. Maybe I am a Sam. She has a healthier sized arse teamed with relatively small tits, she also shares my passion for red lipstick. I embark on promiscuous sex with a midget magazine editor, a tycoon 30years my senior and a freshly shaven property developer. Instead of empowerment I get piles from too much anal sex. Being a filthy bitch stretches me to my limits, maybe being conservatively Charlotte is more ‘me’.
Charlotte being a pro-life-type, I dispose of the pile of morning-after pill packets I’d kept in good supply, with much deliberation. She’s bang into adoption and kids ‘n stuff, so I adopt a donkey and donate 5quid by text to Children in Need. I shop in Next Home and Homebase, building up a collection of lamps, cushions and plants which seamlessly help in creating my guise as a ‘good wife’ type. I find myself settled in a rural two up two down, pretending I’ve come off the pill and vigorously researching the possibilities of hiring an allotment locally. Feeling bipolar as I cook real fish in the oven, I pine for change, liberation, trousers and my very own man bag. I cry into my pillow just like Charlotte does. ‘You’ve never been popular’ the voices in my head tell me. ‘You are Miranda, the power-hungry ginger bitch-faced real-life lesbian’. But I don’t like the idea of putting my face in a woman’s fanny. ‘How could I be Miranda?’ I ask, before reality hits me like a donkey punch. It doesn’t matter that in real life she is a muff diver, on telly she is the embodiment of girl power…
I play Miranda’s role with ease. Chewing up and spitting up ugly men everywhere. I thrive on paying my own way (spiraling into debt), frequently chatting up barmen wearing glasses hoping they’ll be ‘the one’. They aren’t. I’ve become a dyke alcoholic in a grey suit? How was I to get sex in the city in this state, without bending over for barristers? Where did it all go wrong?
And so I revert to my old ways, the HSamuel ‘Jenni’ necklace reemerges, the Manhattan-inspired Matalan dress is back over my unavoidably visible polyester bra, and most importantly, the chunky orange legs are out. This is dedication. I suck up a Long Island Iced Tea cocktail with a bunch of witches I like to cackle over cock with, and we spend a long-awaited evening gouging each other for gossip, laughing ‘til we fart, hiccupping little bits of sick and slapping on each other’s lip-glosses all night to make sure we all look fuckable enough to draw in all the bastards who we’ll soon regurgitate if they dare to do anything other than worship us on our New York-themed Wetherspoons night out.
Drunk and borderline personality disordered I air-kiss the gals goodbye before whistling for a cab. It doesn’t work, so I keep it real and walk home past a few blocks [of council flats] and eventually collapse onto my bed. Boy oh boy, this glamorous city life can be tiresome! I reflect how Carrie and I are the same people, it just so happens I was born in Wales. Her words ring through my head: ‘I'm looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love’. This was my cue to contact my true love, the man who was always there to flatter and/or reject me in times of realisation that I’ve become an existentially vacuous cunt. But who should I call? I have nine entries for ‘Mr. Big’ in my phonebook and not one of them will remember who I am.