Much like the novels of Fanny Burney or Jane Austen 200 years before, Sex and the City tackles that perennial female conundrum, how to maintain independence from men (intellectual, sexual, financial) while seeking the ideal life-partner for whom that much-cherished independence can safely be sacrificed. So it is that Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda and Samantha prowl relentlessly the canyons of Manhattan in search of mates, all of whom fall woefully short of their needs in one crucial way or another. Yet, with biological clocks ticking and suppressed nesting instincts fighting back, the foursome occasionally find themselves dangerously close to despair. The dating game can be deadly serious sometimes. Which is why Sex and the City is not just good TV, it's great TV: for all its refreshingly cynical wit and superficial vivaciousness, the show has at its heart a streak of pathos and painful truth that resonates deeply with its audience.

In the show's second season, the scrutiny falls more on the women than their succession of useless dates. Carrie has to learn the painful truth about Big all over again; Miranda has panic attacks about being alone for the rest of her life; Sam is humiliated by the ladies who lunch into confessing that she's a whore; and Charlotte is reduced to trading kinky foot massages for free shoes. Savage love, indeed.