Was hungry the other day, looking for restaurants for lunch. The less people, the better. There was a graduation nearby; people flocked to the mall to celebrate. While going around, saw Kate Atkinson's novel displayed at National, on sale! Forgot about my stomach pangs and snatched it right away.
The author's foreword:
If you were to ask me what the book is about (which is the most loathesome question you could ask—why bother write the thing if you have to explain it? It is what it is) and if I were forced to answer, I would say, "It's about things." The book is a repository for the past: for mine, for other people's, for the city's, a place of safekeeping for the fragile.