Some day I am going to tell the story about how Cinderella swapped her glass shoes for a pair of Gucci ones and became a random member of the sex and the city-cast. For now, however:
I watch as Mr. Big - oh, Mr. Big - cooks, in his kitchen. His hands full of flour and dough; he leans forward to smoke the cigarette Carrie is holding for him, glass of wine in her other hand.
And there it is:
I have no talent for romance. I am alienated by grand displays of it; sceptical of the classic stories. My tolerance levels are so low; holding someone's cigarette while they cook is about as high as I am able to aim.
This doesn't actually bother me. It surprises me, the way Cinderella was probably surprised to find herself a Manhattan single rather than a fairytale princess; but we are adaptable, and we learn to get on with things.
Eventually.