Prima premiere

In the summer months it's nice to avoid London's perilous underground network and turn the two-stop journey into a few steps walk to the office. The same on the return journey. Only there are some evenings when my head-down-scurry through Leicester Square is transformed into an elbows-out crawl through crowds of people - premiere night. Acres (perchance I exaggerate) of the Square are turned into red carpeted stages for stars as they sashay past in shimmering frocks - at least I imagine this is the case as the most I have ever seen are The Public's hunched backs and straining necks, lurking, smoking paps and policemen redirecting pedestrian traffic as I fight past them all in the never-ending struggle towards the station.

Gosh, did I wish I'd avoided Leicester Square tonight. After some rather pleasant Monday shoe shopping (more on that, later) I was faced with a rammed barge-fest across the Square, only fully realising I should have taken a different route when it was too late to do so. The reason? The mother of all premieres; or, the unmarried thirty something doyenne of all premieres - that's right, those four ladies are in London, it was the Sex and the City movie premiere. So there are all sorts of women, everywhere. Lenses poke me in the eye, leaning blondes knock me for six, ladies yell, "Should of got up here about two o clock!" and, "Can't you see 'er Shell?"...

This jamboree just puts me right off going to see a film based on a show I have admittedly always adored. Not for nothing did Vanessa Friedman ominously observe, 'The Sex and the City juggernaut has rolled into town,' in her enlightening FT piece on the commercial aspects of this mega-movie. The commercial bandwagon indeed seems to be one with plenty of room for all. I've heard radio sponsors, seen tv build-up, there've been magazine articles for months, 'leaked' screen shots, a transparent trailer, heck, even CU shoe shots of key stilettos from the movie. It just turns my stomach and puts me right off.

In the park at the weekend my two gentlemen pals Monsieur I and Monsieur M were indignant when I announced I couldn't wait to go and see Sex and the City: The Movie, just so I could hate it (reminds me of a Berger line, more than anything else). At first I was foxed and thought perhaps it was just me being contrary; now I think I've tapped into my own psyche a little better. All this hullabaloo is just too, too much. I watched SATC ad nauseum because I love the show and it was a teensy bit niche, not because I heard idents on a cheesy radio station. I adored the outfits because it was fun to fantasise about out-of-reach designers not because I want to spot which It-shoes to get on the waiting list for. And I loved Carrie and co because they were just a bit cool and y'know what, the last thing all this is is cool.

I'm happy to be advertised at to a degree but I don't want this film shoved down my throat - then it's just going to make me sicky, not swoony. More than anything else, I just want all these people to get out of Leicester Square and let me stride on through, giving me and my new shoes some space. Hmm, Manolos might fly, eh?