And just like that, Sex and the City turned 20.

I fell in love with the American TV programme in the summer of 2006. I was 15 and my only contact with boys was playing train-simulation computer games at my gay friend Christopher’s house. Staying up late into the night, I’d watch reruns on the tiny television in my bedroom, hoping the sound of Samantha’s screaming orgasms wouldn’t wake up my mum and dad.

I couldn’t relate to the storylines of the rich Manhattan career women looking for love, but it still felt so cosy. The gossipy brunches, trendy bars, jazzy music and Carrie’s ponderings across a starlit city. It made me imagine a future in which I could ignore the constant questioning from family