A female Jack Parlabane from any of the Brookmyre novels meets A female Blott from Tom Sharpe in a completely insane version of Cold Comfort Farm. There is no point in trying to explain the relentless remorselessness of the plot especially as it would spoil your fun reading this book. Just think of Margo Channing in 'All about Eve' - 'fasten your seatbelts, it's going to be a bumpy ride'.
I pause at the duck pond and look down into the dirt. Life grows in natural dirt, I think. Nothing grows in an ornamental pond. I'm contemplating this grand truth and then suddenly I think I am not going back. It comes upon me suddenly and at first I don't accept it. I kick it back, hastily, worried the thought might grab me and make me do something I'll come to regret. But there it is again. I might not leave. Why should I, I think, just because my lazy traitor of a husband sent a postcard? Why should I leave at all?