If you hear a lot of squealing today, and a ferocious stomping of high heels, then it is probably a gaggle of females charging to the cinema to see Sex and the City 2.
Yes, just when you thought it was safe to come out of your giant walk-in designer wardrobe, Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and that other one (oh yes, Charlotte, the one who converted to Judasim for her husband) return to the big screen as part of a continued campaign by Sarah Jessica Parker to inflict cerebral atrophy on a generation of western women - or at the very least, make it appear as if we have been trepanned by a Christian Louboutin heel and care only about clothes and boys.
I have never been a massive fan of Sex and the City (or "SATC", as devout viewers call it). I could not give a fig whether Carrie is wearing Dior or Vuitton, though obviously the mind does boggle as to how a newspaper columnist could afford such garments, for this one is currently dressed top to toe in New Look.
The sight of a pink SATC box set in a living room leaves me un-moved, but the vision of four perfectly groomed women strolling down a sidewalk, presumably en route to drink cosmopolitans, puts my teeth on edge (as does the theme music to the show).
But my feelings towards it were never total hatred - more the wrong side of indifference. I always thought that away from the clothes, when it came to matters of the heart (and Samantha's groin), this was a programme that could be brave, true and funny. The first Sex and the City movie changed all that.
I always thought this programme could be brave, true and funny. The movie changed that.
I watched it by mistake, at a friend's house, over a curry. "Oh why not?" I thought, and some two and a half hours later, I had the answer. Any semblance of sexual independence or strength had vanished in the transfer from small to big screen.
After 94 television episodes, Carrie finally gets Mr Big, only for him to decide on the big day that he can't go through with it - leaving her completely humiliated in front of the cream of Manhattan society.
You would think that would be enough to turn you off a man, but no. At the end of the film, she takes him back and they have a small, initimate wedding, the implication being that it was all her fault for turning into a Bridezilla. And so, Carrie ended the film smiling simply and looking like a bit of a sap.
Even the promotional material for the sequel is enough to make you want to garotte yourself - all shiny and glittery, as if it were nothing more than a Barbie movie for children.
In the film itself Carrie writes a book entitled I Do. Do I?, which she puts next to a Susan Sontag volume, a moment which must surely have caused much grave-spinning.
The four women spend much of the sequel in Abu Dhabi, and the film's portrayal of the country has been described as insulting to Muslims; the critics have described the entire movie as insulting to women.
One friend of mine, a complete SATC obsessive, went to see it earlier this week. Her verdict?
"A load of garbage. Truly awful. Dated. But the worst thing about it? The franchise has such a hold on me, that if they made a third film, I know I would have to go and see it."
For all our sakes, I hope that doesn't happen.