It lists endless grievances, slights, run-ins and disappointments that Monica Dickens suffered during her year as a nurse during the war (but I keep thinking, just tell them who your great-grandfather is, that should silence them). The incidents are all trivial; and you can’t escape the notion as you read the book that all these unimportant patients and nurses she complains about are long dead. In that sense the book acts as a momento mori; now will one day be 70 years in the past and forgotten too.
It is the horror of reading another’s thoughts. Did the people she criticizes read this book and recognise themselves? I feel sorry for them all; this book is best left on the shelf.