I should have turned up glamorous, in my “Celia Birtwell for Topshop” daisy dress, a one-piece black translucent dress with flouncy hems, designed to add an additional spring into every step I take. Nevermind the fact that I was not on back-breaking heels but glittery, silvery flats, I felt strangely feminine and empowered all the same. And that is until I encountered rain and a rush for time.

David Hockney drawing Celia Birtwell’s portrait on a lithograph plate at his Hollywood residence, 1981

Trust me, I squealed every time I saw a vehicle approaching the side of the road I was at while anxiously flagging down cabs. You see, the side of road I was at was situated perilously close to a huge puddle of water which would render me quite unpresentable should the unfortunate splash occur and there were no better places I could hail a cab. I was lucky enough to hop into one after a ten minutes wait, thus sparing me of any potential embarrassment. I could not remember such an athletic effort on my part for a long time, leaping agilely at any sign of imminent danger, in fact, I surprised myself by being able to leap at all.

Finally I reached my destination and immediately felt excited because it was a “Sex and The City” afternoon! Miss E was in her tiered rainbow dress and Gretchen in a purple satin floral top complete with mauve lipstick. Even Mister Ratatouille was dressed in a casual cream knitted polo and white Bermudas which I could pronounce as “stylish”. You see, Mister Ratatouille is one of those men who prizes comfort above fashion but it seems like he has reached a new level of understanding with both.

I shall not provide a review of “Sex and the City: The Movie” because being female, when presented with a roomful of designer labels: fabulous clothes, cute clutches, strappy heels, outrageous bags and a sappy storyline that ends with a happily everafter, may tend to be quite biased. However, even I think that Mr. Big putting on the shoe for Carrie in her walk-in closet is cliché and corny. And I am driven to a new level of guilt after I read Anthony Lane’s review in “The New Yorker”.

The creepiest aspect of this sequence was the sound that rose from the audience as he displayed the finished closet: gasps, fluttering moans, and, beside me, two women applauding.

I was one of the applauding females. Despite the fact that we are thousands of miles apart and I may not be physically there as one of the two women who clapped right beside him but I sure embodied one of those thousands of style-over-sanity females during the screening, an avid contributor towards creepy theatric atmosphere for males.

In my defense, I was applauding for the walk-in closet. It was every bit of a closet worthy of every fashion addict’s dream, roomier than my whole bedroom and shiny mirrors reflecting the owner in any given angle.