Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine

by Gail Honeyman

The exhibition of newly discovered Roman trove had been tremendous; the journey to Edinburgh, far less so. The train interior had been more like a bus than the Orient Express, replete with hard-wearing fabrics in stain-concealing colors and gray plastic fittings. The worst thing, apart from the other travelers—my goodness, the hoi polloi do get about these days, and they eat and drink in public with very few inhibitions—was the incessant noise from the loudspeakers. It seemed there was an announcement every five minutes from the mythical conductor, imparting sagacious gems such as large items should be placed in the overhead luggage racks, or that passengers should report any unattended items to the train crew as soon as possible. I wondered at whom these pearls of wisdom were aimed; some passing extraterrestrial, perhaps, or a yak herder from Ulan Bator who had trekked across the steppes, sailed the North Sea and found himself on the Glasgow–Edinburgh service with literally no prior experience of mechanized transport to call upon?

Me, currently