I'm not sure how I feel about this. It's the interior monologue of a woman living alone but frequently encountering others (neighbours, workmen, men of uncertain import). Then there's the peculiar light her solitude casts upon ordinary objects. At times it was scarily relatable (the fountain pens; the porridge vs. oatcakes/banana) and I did enjoy it, but all in all it's a bit of a head-scratcher. One to re-read at some point, I think.