“The woman looked out her window and realized she still harbored
ill will towards the former lover who shattered the antique glass. 
It may have been a romantic gesture, but she was robbed of rainbows
forever.  The woman considered taking a trip.  But who could housesit? 
There was the gardener, who was taking an inordinate amount of time
planting a few bulbs.  Or maybe the son of a friend who knocked up a
woman of ample proportions and had a companion named after
a theme park.  No.  The woman would stay home.  And write. 
And write.  And write…books that nobody would read.”

I suspect fans of Carrie Bradshaw’s column are much like fans of Billy Masters – not particularly into the bodice-ripper genre.   Rule one for writing a show – have a story you want to tell.  Clearly that rule went out the broken window.  After 10 hours I’ll never get back, you know what I was left with?  A shrug.  Fine – but who cares?  I was left with a question – where does one find this magical karaoke machine that also is preloaded with songs sung by the original artist?  I also thought that if one wanted a show about people in their sixties who were interested in sex and the city, why not set it in London and follow the exploits of a certain ex-pat named Samantha?  I’d watch that!