Corrupted

I remember it well. I felt so grown up, like I'd been initiated into a special group, the next grand stage.

On the cusp of adolescence and, being the eldest of three, having quite an elevated opinion of my maturity and a highly developed sense of how 'adult' I could come across, I had my introduction to a whole new realm of what being a grown-up could be like. I am, of course, referring to the first time I saw 'Sex and the City'.

There was something so deliciously illicit about it. For some reason I was up rather later than usual, and it was just me and Mum curled up on the sofa. Not in the play room, but in the sitting room; a place often forbidden to those of more tender years. An episode started and I asked what it was. The shock and delight did not stop at the title. It was not so much the graphic scenes that made me appreciate that I was most definitely watching a 'grown-up' show, but the way the women talked, what they were talking about and how the adults were portrayed in a wholly different way to that which I had previously experienced.

I was heady with the excitement of actually being allowed to view such a thing, and the treat continued as Mum, brilliantly, produced the ultimate cliche: chocolate and vanilla Carte D'or icecream. Inspired of her to do such a thing, as if to truly acknowledge and toast my awe-struck and imagined adult-hood. We scooped it straight out the giant tub with tea spoons whilst lounging on the sofa. I had only ever had ice cream out of a bowl, or in a cone, and never at this late hour in front of the TV. It was the image of pure femininity to me. Grown-up girliness, of which I had seen on 'Friends' and would read about in 'Bridget Jones' Diary'. Perhaps not the most feminist image, but the one I wanted emmanate the most at that time of life. I was chuffed. And a little bit honoured to have been invited into that new world. My first taste of chick-flick style solidarity.

And I haven't looked back.