For over thirty years it has felt like an endless tale of Gail versus the world. Horrible Ivy (and her disgusting clunky brown tea service), philandering Martin Platt, a wealth of disappointing children (frail, elderly Nick, unappetising Sarah and Weasel David), the micro-bijou house, the council house, Ivy's spare room, murderous Hillman, tedious Joe, prison, cackling Eileen . . . on it goes.
There were good times I suppose. Gail's years in the café with Alma and Phyllis were fun and . . . err, no that's it to be honest. Her best friend, indeed only friend, seems to be Sally whose moral pontificating is enough to have you jumping from the faktry roof. In fact that only person Gail even seems to have any social contact with is the doleful Eileen, rumbling across t'cobbles like a Primark tractor, barbed comment at the ready.
Where to next for the former Miss Potter? Well, the only was is up. No doubt she will repair to a corner, don one of those grim polo-necked creations and begin building bridges. Literally. Owen should employ her as a hod carrier.
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