It’s a harsh buzz to give this so few stars after the year the author has had. But while it met the expressed style set out in the opening stanza, I couldn’t help feel that a better publisher would said “Sinead, we love you and your work, but let someone take these words and write an engaging tale for you”. Instead we have this Staccato set of disconnected memories which hint at a bigger story which begs to be told, preferably by one of Ireland’s greatest modern day artists.