That title seems self-explanatory, doesn't it? And the only thing here I'd read before, Don't Tell Cissie, is absolutely a ghost story, albeit a very unusual one, about a female friendship group, and one of those people "Friendly, good-hearted, and desperately anxious to be in on everything, and yet with this mysterious knack of ruining things". And there are other supernatural stories here, timeslips, suburban voodoo, and another ghost or two. But more often we get what I suppose you'd call tales of unease; the postwar consensus can look idyllic as seen from the apocalyptic present, but story after story homes in on someone living in that classic sitcom set-up, husband and wife and 2.4 children, and shows the desperate lengths to which it's driven them. In The Sunday Outing, Pamela always insists the family should go to the beach at the first sign of sun, when James would much rather rest in the garden, and of course he can't do anything as outlandish as explain how he feels, but just once he thinks he's got a foolproof way to get out of it... Had they lived a few decades later, the husband in An Unsuspected Talent could have stayed home with the kids as he clearly prefers, and his wife been ambitious on her own behalf instead of vicariously, but coming when they did, they drive each other up the wall, and that's before the fateful day of his interview for a promotion. And even the people trying not to perpetuate the straitjacket, like the progressive mum in Barry Findlater, only create new ones. But just when you're wondering if the real horror was the conformity we met along the way, you realise how many stories seem locked on for an utterly despairing ending, only to manage last minute swerves (of varying degrees of plausibility) to salvation. An odd, claustrophobic little book, but never a dull one.