With a glass of wine in her hand, chips and egg on the cooker, and no-one to talk to except the wall, Shirley contemplates life, love and middle-age. ‘It’s a good job we’re not having soup, or else I’d put me head in it and drown meself, ‘I’m not saying he’s bad, my fella, he’s just no bleedin’ good’ sums up her marriage. When ‘feminist’ friend Jane offers a life-changing holiday in Greece, she has to decide between domestic drudgery in Liverpool and a chance to reawaken forgotten dreams.