Smith's latest memoir offers an insightful if not necessarily gripping account of her peripatetic life since the death of husband Fred.
It is always fascinating spending time with Smith but here her worst traits sometimes appear especially that peculiarly American one of an almost gushing juvenile devotion to certain artists which seems odd in a 69 year-old who has achieved so much herself.
There is also an unintentionally funny moment when, asked to deliver a speech to a private society of arctic exploration (don't ask), she just wings it and leaves her audience confused with her garbled speech. Well, we've all been there with Patti.
With hardly any mention of her music, she coasts along, buying her dinner from local eateries or coffee from her local café, watching marathons of her beloved tv detective shows and linking in the impermanence of things with her own loss of Fred.