She lived on a shingle beach, desolate and cold in the winter, desolate and hot in the summer. That morning she took all of her furniture, and lamps, and kitchenware, and anything else that wasn't fixed or too heavy to drag outside and meticulously arranged them in the garden. The garden was just a section of the endless shingle marked by rows of small, scrubby plants - anything that could manage to grow there - making a very low hedge, not enough to keep anyone or anything out. Anything small enough not to be able to get over it could quite easily get through it.

Once arranged she painted everything with a coat of weatherproof primer. Then with three good coats of white gloss.

She went and sat in the house, which was actually a shed with three rooms - a kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom which doubled as a sitting room... for sometimes, like now, she sat in it - and ate the last of the food; half a loaf of bread flavoured with sun-dried tomatoes, a small jar of olives opened especially for that meal, and an old jar of peanut butter.

When she had eaten this, and when the painted things were dry, she went into the garden and burned it all.