On a miserable January morning Sarah is sitting on a plane to Tenerife - dickheads' destination of choice - for a week-long getaway. She's just realised that she's very angry and becoming a bitter bitch, despite being just thirty years old. With her on the plane she has a copy of Erica Jong's "Fear of Flying" and wishes it were 1975 instead of 2005. Sarah never intended for things to turn out the way they have: she just dreamed of love like everyone else. But now she's sitting here, thinking about all the injustices she's suffered. Thinking about how thoroughly fooled she was by the promise of love - the one that makes us want to start a family. Thinking about all the women she knows who, like her, were drained of all their energy by family hell - an inheritance passed down directly from generation to generation, from her restless mother's eczema-covered dishpan hands to her own nervous over-achiever complex.