The Woollen Jumper
1 Despite the bitter chill of November making her wheezing worse, Catriona insisted on having all the windows wide open. But, even after washing the freshly sheared fleece five times in lukewarm water, the stink of the Jacob's ewe impregnated the most remote corner of the cottage. Through a gap in the feather duvet that cloaked her , Catriona gave me one of her rare smiles. ‘I'm icing up over here. Get off your lazy arse, shove a couple more sticks on the stove, then plonk your Sassenach feet on the pedals.’ Every Friday after fixing frozen pipes, putting in new water heaters or whatever moonlighting odd-job I could lay my mitts on, I would trudge from house to house picking up whatever leftover scraps the neighbours left us to make the organic dyes Catriona needed to stain the yarn. Sacks overflowing with onion skins, beetroot tops, and used tea bags lay scattered round the kitchen floor. Strips of banana peel shared hooks with spanners and pipe cutters in my wor...