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Guy’s in Hobart, Tim’s in Wellington, we’re all in audio quality hell - get over it!

This episode is an often-times confusing mix of revelations, giving the feeling of an Olympic athlete from the 1980s who only discovered what event they’re competing in next once they’ve passed the threshold of a prior, unrelated sporting pursuit. First - Carrie has a downstairs tenant. To be clear - there has been ZERO PRIOR ALLUSION to there even being a dwelling below NYC’s new fav romanicy writer’s place but all of a sudden, but that hasn’t stopped Mattress Pikelet King intro’ing a british flavour to the overboiling pot of plots and characters.

Seema’s trying to girlboss her way into a new mortgage, Miranda gets threatened by a naked cleaver-weilding man forcing her to move in with Carrie and immediately becoming the worst house mate anyone’s ever had, Harry has the big C, and there is a ghoulish invocation of Samantha’s existence via SMS text message. Put simply - we are running out of benchspace and elements to place all of these pots and pans.

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