What really gets a girl's goat

IT'S always the little things, isn't it? Infidelity, mental cruelty, lies and deceit, the odd spot of physical abuse: pah, all forgivable, he's only human. (I am, I'm proud and delighted to reveal, speaking only from experience). But then, as you chuckle merrily through the list of occasions when he wasn't where he claimed to be, cheerfully rub your arm where it's still a bit achy, smile benignly through his promises never to see her again, you notice that hang on is he picking his teeth with a fork? And that's it.

Over. Bye-bye. I'll pop your stuff in the post.

Because, however valiantly your passion survived the various hells and high waters of serious trauma, as soon as you notice how noisily he drinks soup, the future is only black. Blowing his nose on the tea- towels, wearing open-toed shoes, listening to music a bit too loud: these are the real passion-killers. That's why, when you're trying to yank a friend out of an abusive relationship and she stubbornly ignores your heartfelt cries of "Leave that evil bastard", the best thing you can really say is: "Amazing that it doesn't bother you, the funny way he's always clearing his throat."

The relationship's dead in a fortnight.

Once again last night, Sex and the City (Channel 4) hit the nail on the head. In the first of two episodes, our theme was: "What are the deal-breakers?" Charlotte left her charming, witty, eligible boyfriend because he habitually licked her chin during kisses. In the second episode (theme: "Are we sluts?"), her next contender was elbowed for saying the wrong things in bed. Meanwhile, Stanford was unable to continue a promising new relationship because the man involved "has a hideous collection of dolls".

All utterly believable and well-observed. Even in lonely New York, where decent boyfriends are reputedly so hard to come by, nobody can put up with irritating personal habits. The principle was spot-on; although I'd quibble with some of the detail. Samantha abandoned a boyfriend for being too close to his sister; I would have respected that, but chucked him when he leaned over in bed and crooned: "You have so much attitude up front, but look at you now soft and sweet." Oh bring me something to vomit in.

But, like our own girlfriends, the characters in Sex and the City make a habit of doing things we disagree with individually, under the umbrella of a general shared outlook. Each occasion of shouting at the screen: "I can't believe you're going to give up smoking just because he asked you to!" is balanced by a reassuring moment of communion: when Carrie saw the vision of an amazing new man, playing with an affectionate dog, I was annoyed with the director for adopting the cute-pet cliche just seconds before Carrie spat "Jesus Christ, the dog is overkill." The female friendships work best in one- on-one scenes, as a pair of characters debate their quandaries. The group scenes can be more awkward, occasionally running the horrible risk of looking like the Bella Pasta adverts in the cinema. (How much do you hate the one who insists on exclaiming "Bella pasta!" in an Italian accent?

It's time her rigatoni was laced with cyanide). In last night's Sex and the City, when Samantha criticised Charlotte's boyfriend with the quip, "Might I suggest you change his name from 'Brad' to 'Bad'?", we saw the four friends roaring with laughter: an unconvincing, Bella Pasta reaction that her pun didn't actually merit.

THE second episode dealt with that endlessly fascinating question: how many lovers is too many? No girl can pretend she hasn't asked herself that. It looked suspiciously as though we'd see a lot of theoretical debate, but no actual commitment to numbers.

But, as the episode drew to a close, Miranda finished making her list ("David Jeff the guy from the deli ) and proclaimed "42!" I was, I admit, faintly prudish and shocked. But then I realised it's like the old story of the woman who says she'd sleep with someone for a million pounds but, asked if she'd do it for a fiver, exclaims: "What do you think I am?"

Her witty interlocutor replies: "Madam, we've established what you are; we're just trying to work out the price." By the same logic, I suppose when it comes to "the magic number" of lovers, it's either one or more than one.

There's no ethically significant distinction between, say, 10 and 30.

And you have to admire the programme for coming right out with the specifics. Besides, it's always nice to watch a programme that makes you feel innocent.

Copyright 2001
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