The last episode of Sex and the City finally aired tonight. I was rather disappointed. After six years of emotional investments, I am left feeling like I've accidentally dropped the last piece of a thoroughly enjoyed chocolate brownie on the floor.

Perhaps what was more of a let down was Mr Big's name.

John. Fucking John! Out of all the names in the world, and after having six years to come up with a name for Big, they decided call him John. I was livid.

I've had problems with the name John. I don't seem to have much luck with Johns. They're either liars of the most generic type, or annoying weasels of the can't-exchange-can't-refund-can't-get-rid-of variety. Now, I take extra precaution when introduced to people with the name John. I even heed the warning bells when they are its foreign counterparts, like Jean or Ioan (unless it's Gruffudd, in which case, I will wrap him in a bow and send him to Pixie).

Perhaps John is an appropriate name for Big. He certainly possessed the troublesome characteristic of a John. I think I can now come to terms with this oversight on part of the writers. On the contrary, I commend their impeccable insight into the elaborate psyche of Johns.