SEX AND THE CITY

In the days when New York was still New York—gritty, glamorous, and unapologetically self-absorbed—Sex and the City was Observer's wink and nod to the city’s most notorious obsession: itself. The column, written with the kind of detached irony that only comes from someone who’s seen it all and still wants more, peeled back the veneer of Manhattan’s dating scene to reveal a world where love was a transaction, and commitment was as rare as a cab in the rain. The prose was as sharp as a Manolo Blahnik stiletto, slicing through the absurdities of cocktail-fueled courtships with a blend of dry humor and unflinching honesty. Each installment was a meticulously crafted snapshot of a city teetering on the edge of its own self-inflicted neuroses, where relationships were less about romance and more about the real estate of the heart. Yet, beneath the biting commentary, there was a playful intelligence at work, a sense that the absurdity of it all was what made it worth writing about. Sex and the City wasn’t just a column; it was a love letter to a city that was impossible to love unconditionally—and that was precisely the point.