It is impossible to empathise with these mono-dimensional heroes. For half the novel, their lives are nothing short of bliss, which is another way of saying that next to nothing happens. This is exemplary of the dialogue: This is revolting. (The dog's name is , for goodness' sake.) Unfortunately, as I say, it is also representative. The bottom-numbing banalities of married life, even of married life, are not the stuff of literature. At most they make for padding. And Ms Lewis-Foster loves her padding like I love my pudding, or as loved his pad-play.