I am breathless. My heart is in my stomach and pounding around like an indoor hockey match. Staring deep into the eye of my accuser I beg: "mercy!"

The clock ticks furiously past the minutes. One, two, suddenly five have passed and I am sure to pass out from the sheer weight of the moment.

Does Miranda find true love in those five minutes?

Oh curse you fickle fate, you demon of home electronics and urban sitcom.

My bladder yearns at attention but suppress its screams I must; the DVR needs repairing. The show must go on.

In streams and, oh, trickles, warm, brackish, running down the legs.

Sex and the City.