it's been a busy week.

The latest column:

"YOU have it," my friend Missy whispers to me over drinks one night at The Spotted Pig. "You have the mojo!"

She's a little drunk, she's extra hot and she seals the observation with a faux-lesbian kiss on my cheek.

"I'm so happy for you," she says conspiratorially. "You're so much sexier now."

I know just what she means.

The latest story:

THERE'S a moment in the new "Sex and the City" movie, The Post has learned, when Carrie Bradshaw is lounging in a cliff-top Mexican villa, overlooking a breathtaking view of the ocean, with her pink Swarovski-encrusted cellphone in hand. She's checking her voice mail.

First message.

It's from Big, who, as many know by now, actually has a name: John James Preston.

"Babe," he says affectionately, before saying he needs to talk to her urgently.

In a moment of pure impulsiveness, Carrie (Sarah Jessica Parker) throws her phone off the cliff. It goes sailing through the air, with the sun sparkling off the crystals as it falls into the ocean.

It's ludicrous. It's exciting. It's over-the-top.

And it's achieving what many in the film industry believed impossible just a few years ago: building a cinematic fantasy that's bigger than Big.

It's ludicrous. It's exciting. It's over-the-top.

Spoiler alert! Continuing to read this exclusive story will tell you far more about the new movie than has been reported anywhere else. Really. If you want your first viewing of the "Sex and the City" movie to be pristine, we strongly suggest you stop here.

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