The blurb hooks us with a tantalizing premise: aged ex-copywriter Frances sits on her stairs waiting for the bailiffs to give up and leave her in peace.  By way of killing some time she pretends to reflect on the exciting array of world history she has beheld over the past five decades, including such delights as the rise and fall of Communism, Feminism, and Capitalism (which was promptly followed by the Shock, Crunch, Squeeze, Recovery, Fall, Crisis and finally, Bite).

Sadly, this dizzying array of economical, political and social upheaval is merely a backdrop for our narrator’s main gripe – namely, her ex husband, Karl (one of many) and her disparate handful of offspring and offsprung.  She also happens to be the What If sibling that Fay evidently never had and most likely didn’t want anyway (Frances nicks Fay’s would-be hubby, but pays for it later).  There is absolutely no real purpose to this, as Frances appears to be little more than a skinny version of Fay.  I don’t think this is necessarily the case of shoddy characterization (although let’s not rule that out) more than another symptom of the irksome line of wrongness that etches its way through the novel.  This particular brand of wrong is very much Weldon’s own, since she cannot resist stamping herself over everything.  I have nothing against a dash of distinctive voice in my prose, but Weldon edges too far into smug self-consciousness for her tone not to grate over prolonged stretches of mendersome narration.  Rather than simply casting a shadow over the plot, it has been tragically swallowed up by Weldon’s ego.

Overall, Chalcot Crescent reads a little like a first draft that was written in a hurry.  You get the feeling that Weldon had tremendous fun writing all this, but that she chose to indulge her supposedly shrewd relation-based observations rather than explore too much by way of new territory.  So many ideas are crammed in, but sadly, very few of them get a chance to develop into little more than knowing commentary and anecdotal asides.

It’s a shame Weldon doesn’t allow her readers more than a few choice glimpses of her version of our post Crunch future, as the bones we’re thrown are more satisfying than the flesh which surrounds them.  As such, when the tale ends, you may be left with a lingering suspicion that Weldon just got bored. There are some interesting ideas nestled in amongst the domestic disputes and in the hands of a more humble agent there is the potential for something genuinely insightful and provocative here.