Doreen’s knitting flowed over her knee in neat stitches the colour of regurgitated carrot, the yarn shimmering as if spun from finely shredded plastic bags.
She saw me looking and said, ‘For my daughter-in-law, Julie,’ her lip curled as she spoke the name, the smallest bead of spit glistening on her chin. ‘The one who had to have granite worktops in her kitchen and said my backside was shaped like a Space Hopper.’
I eyed a shapeless panel, scratchy as hessian. ‘You mean the one with the terrible psoriasis?’
She nodded and smiled. Revenge, it seems, is best knitted and purled.