No secret that the pavements of Sofia aren’t mere footpaths. On a good day, they are a religious experience and even on a bad, at least a catwalk.

Just take a closer look around at what litters the streets. Above the garbage.

Capisce?

Yes, although "beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and so it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye", to quote the indomitable Miss Piggy, I reckon that here in the Bulgarian capital, she can keep her trotters safely holstered, as it is an in-your-face fact that a mere stroll around town, a pop into a shop or a swift one in a bar can often suddenly turn into an encounter with the divine.

With the kind of eye candy to not only stop traffic but cause multiple pile-ups into the bargain.

Something they do all the time of course. Metaphorically speaking. Because they are always squealing on their "Achilles heels" – 24/7.

No, not the compulsory skyscraper stilettos. State of the art mobile phones, rather.

Mind-blowing for a blonde to realise this, but Farrah Fawcett, former sex symbol and Charlie’s favourite angel, once famously said: "God gave women intuition and femininity." Femininity? Sure. Bulgarian women have an overflow of that in the bag.

But intuition? A female sixth sense? Absolutely. It’s called gossip.

Indeed, with the world at their feet, Bulgarian women wish for nothing more than to be able to summarily trample all over it by tittle-tattling long and hard on their mobes day in, day out. Hashing up their own, and everyone else’s lives, into the bargain. Which leaves absolutely no time for anything else, does it. Apart from putting their morale back together again with yet another call, obviously.

It is what naturally makes them tick.

The men
And you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to work out what the main topic of all the blether is either.

Top marks! Yes. Men. The ultimate urban, apologies gents, urbane myth to analyse.

So here we go, gird your loins, boys. Because good, bad or ugly, there is no face control in the chinwags of your average Sofian female. Any ball is worthy enough of a quick kick around. Perhaps even yours, God forbid.

To some of the fairer sex, long-wedded housewives, a favourite thesis to dissect 114 times a day on the Nokia seems to be "Complaints about the Under-Par and Under-Thumb Hubby". Vociferously.

"No, he’s still not up to scratch, petal. Not by a long way!"

The umpteenth thin white coffin nail for the hour is quickly sparked up here as combat stress of thinking about the other half kicks in.

"His smelly feet almost asphyxiated the neighbours last night and then the moron broke the TV when what’shisname, yes the one with the nice thighs, missed the goal by the length of our Skoda. Sex? Oh don’t go there, pumpkin. He never does. Time to trade him in, you reckon? What’s that? Bung an ad in the classifieds? Hmm, good idea."

To others, those modelled on statuesque Sofia herself, brainy, multi-lingual types with long legs and ambitions to match, whizzing to the top of chosen careers in glitzy new office blocks (...pant...pant..., ok, draw breath here, gents, just trying to make you read at the same lightspeed at which these gals run their hectic lives, so you get the picture), the focus of chat-choice (multi-tasked in trio naturally as they gossip simultaneously on their phones and Skype, while messaging on Facebook at exactly the same time with exactly the same person... phew, almost done now) is the dream team boyfriend. The gem among all the ersatz! Who is he? Where is he? Why is he? (Not with me. Sob.)

Round and round the mulberry, nay, Blackberry bush, spin these $64 000 questions. As fast as professional or political PR they whiz across the airwaves of the capital, gumming them up in a whirlwind of "did he’s, reallys, goshes, giggles, asses and don’t you says".

Among all the back-stabbing, the conversation of such upwardly mobiles sometimes momentarily switches to the current masters, which they collect like confetti by the way. We’re talking education, not men here, for a sec. But only to a degree. (Don’t panic girls.)

"Oh, it’s going fab, darling! No, another one now. I ditched the foreign policy module after that terrible row with Georgi, or was it Emilio, Kamen even, no, Chavdar. Whoever, fat load of good all that work was! So which is it at the moment? Hard currency of course, sweetie. Banking? Foreign Exchange? Stock market? Huh? Oh no, peach, none of them. Far too boring. I’m studying big cash. How to win it over. How to tie a rich man around my little finger. What? Sounds like I actually want a mistress’, not a master’s, you say? Perhaps. Hehehe."

The equipment
All this said as she wags her little pinky provocatively in the air. A pinky with a work of art on it. To the fast talkin’, sexy walkin’, pretty lip-smackin’ girl about town nails are not mere keratin any more, it is now uber-essential for them to be nothing less than works of art worthy of the Tate or the Louvre.

Then it’s onto more important, rudimentary stuff for these wanna-be devils in phony Prada. Yes, handbags. Because capital career-suffragettes like handbags like bears like bins. The bigger the better, too. To lose stuff in. Keys, phones, make-up, lunch, perfume, Zeppelins, annoying boyfriends...

"How about that new fake handbag she’s got? Isn’t it soooo pretty and so vast. Why doesn’t she just move into it? Far better interior design than her apartment. What, she’s got two of them? Isn’t she bankrupt? No? She earns how much? The b***h! How can I get her fired and pinch that job?

"So cute though the bag. Think she can get me one? Super-dupe!

"And her hair? Who did that? What a mess. Better go easy on the cutting remarks? Very sensitive about the locks at the mo’ is she? Ok, I’ll remember, sexy.

"My mascara? Bad news. I had to ditch it after a client said a meeting with me was like an interview with a vampire. But that glossy scarlet lipstick you tipped me off about is wonderful. Yes, it really does the business. When you kiss with it on the man really does stick to your lips, have you noticed? Cor, it’s magic.

"Anyway, gotta run. Better look busy for a while as everyone is on the warpath today. So I’ll call you back in about 8.5 seconds when I’ve flicked my hair around once or twice and added a fresh coat of war paint to my face, ok darling?"

The men, again
Then there is the wild-child type of eye-catching gal who prefers her man feral and fearless. An urban Tarzan tycoon who packs heat. One type during the hours of graft, another softer version after dark. Hers truly or so she thinks. Yes, its 9mm bullets by day, blanks by night for her squeeze. I don’t just mean the looks either. (I AM REFERRING TO THE LOOKS, BOYS, DON’T LOSE YOUR COOL.)

Here the natter on 0898 cellphones is made of tougher stuff. Like the meat these willowy chicks only rarely nibble at on account of their diets. And the fact the boyfriend is always in the casino with another chick. (I spend a lot of money on birds, booze and fast cars. The rest I just squander. George Best-style.) No solitary confinement for him. No apprehension at all for that mutra.

Female heart to hearts for these the new euro molls also mainly concern themselves about the latest male crisis.

"I think I’m gonna get kneecapped as he saw me chatting to that new hunk behind the bar at Sin City last night."

Puff, puff, puff. A drag on the skinny white butt omnipresent in the delicious mouth.

"How else am I s’pposed to test if my leopard ‘eff me’ boots really work, tho’? And if he does blast me knees to kingdom come how’m I ever gonna wear stilettos again? The three inches will be impossible, let alone the five. Hard enough as it is!"

That’s not all, though. Without a doubt the dialogue of these duchesses also constantly touches on the thorny question of marriage.

"What do you really want to be when you grow up, Barbie?"

This teaser always brings a blondish twinkle to their eyes despite the fact that they and the hair are deeply brunette. And the standard reply is not simply an answer, it is a mantra.

"A trophy wife."

"But won’t he have a big problem with your little problem vis-a-vis chasing anything in trousers, pussycat?" Puff, puff, puff on the equally skinny white cigarette at the other end. Then tongues get hurled into motion again at 500 RPM.

"Course not. It’s me you are talking to, silly. The traffic is always going the other way, isn’t it. As it seems to be now in actual fact. Oooh, am I really on a one-way street. What fun!"

"Watchyagonna do when the looks go though? When stuff starts to sag?"

"Oh they never will, pumpkin. ‘Ain’t you heard about the skin business? Yes, yes, yes of course I know you are a professional but resting from that game at the moment darlin’. But I’m not talking about that firm, am I. I’m talkin’ about another one, babe! Nip, tuck is here in town now, donchaknow? These days if you want tits the size of the dome on Alexander Nevsky and a Silicon Valley- or Grand Canyon-type cleavage to match, then no probs. Me bf can prob even arrange an EU grant if you want major reconstruction work done on the tush, hush-hush, hunny-bun. The clinic’s phone number? ‘Ang on a sec peach I’ll text it to yah, got it on speed-dial. Whatsthatyersay? Modellin’ jobs? Nah, none. Me bum is out of bounds at the mo’, you should see it! Black ‘n’ blue all over. Yeah, the hunk at Sin City...

Tonight? Where? Hmm... sounds good. Clothes? Brands, of course, doll, brands! You know me. No time to change? Don’t worry about it. Aren’t your tattoos branding enough for anyone babe, hahahaha? Anyway in this hot weather nearly naked beachwear covers all eventualities, including this evening’s, so just come in your bikini underwear. Yeah there’s a cooool thought. You could do a Britney. Go commando to snare that dude mate of me boyfriend’s tonight, by fair means or foul. Sex? Is he up to it? You mean him being over 60 and all that? Viagra, peach, Viagra. Ooohh, I’m losing control of the Beemer, ‘ang on a sec, oh nooooo, better go, oops, yah, later. And don’t worry about the drugs. I’ll give you supplies from the emergency bumper pack hidden somewhere in me handbag later.." Click.

The flag
Gripping stuff. But useful about the things in life that really matter? Maybe. Perhaps it all really is a highly complicated, lateral code and mind-blowing solutions to problems in the economy, society and other crises are actually hidden real deep in all this earth-shattering scandal. Only they know.

Doof! Miss Piggy just slapped me. Time to go before real punches fly.

Bulgarian women. What an impossible, mystifying quiz for a man. Can’t say you didn’t warn me that I’d be foxed by you as a subject, though, can I, lasses?

The caveats are everywhere. Even hidden in the subtle colours of the tricolour flying proudly atop any Bulgarian government building.

White, green and red.

The traditional colours in flag lore for surrender, danger/storm warning, and um....all’s safe. (Note carefully that two of the three are flags are from womankind’s favourite hangout in the whole wide world apart from shops and bathrooms, obviously. The beaches. Careful how you read that last word. I do mean it exactly as written Miss Piggy; no need to burn your bra.)

White, green and red. Together. Very confusing. Very apt.

Say no more. Except for you, girls. You keep talking (as if you need any encouragement from me).

Meanwhile, I am off to buy some shares in MTel.

---

For sale: One botched husband. Second-hand classic! Only one careful owner since new. Well run-in, 1957 model. Hangover from the 1970s. Yes, 100 per cent Kamenitza approved! Regular oiling/liquid lunching with whiskey also highly recommended. Bodywork a bit tatty. Needs bed/house-training. Potty. Government Warning: After 10pm week nights all life support systems crash. Dazed and confused at weekends. Barbeques out – highly inflammable! Snores and bores so invalid MOT. No warranty but goods do come with a 15-minute guarantee and three t-shirts (used). Buyer to collect! Offered cheap and cheerful to the motivated furniture shopper in view of these factory defects! Part-exchange for three slimline Murattis or 45 stotinki cash on the nail. Serious bids only please. No calls during the South American soaps!