Recounting a Train of Thought.

For some weeks now I’ve been searching the charity shops for a couple of heavy winter sweaters, preferably in pure wool because it’s warmer than cotton, nylon or acrylic. (And I dislike the feeling of nylon and acrylics anyway.) So far I’ve been unsuccessful, and it just occurred to me how useful it would be to have a wife who could knit. The problem is that I expect she’d want to hang around even when she’d finished the sweaters, so that’s no good.

In coming to this conclusion, I remembered that I once lived with a woman who liked to buy me sweaters for some reason. She bought me lots, two of which I’m still wearing. I think she might have inherited the sweater gene from her mother because, by an odd coincidence, her mother once knitted me a heavy winter sweater in pure wool – and I’m still wearing that one, too.

And that little recollection led me to remember the bizarre circumstances surrounding her mother’s death. It seems her dad had gone out to some function one night and come home late. Finding that his wife had already gone to bed, he joined her and went straight to sleep. He woke up in the morning to find her stiff and cold beside him, and the subsequent post mortem indicated that she’d died even before he got home. That meant he’d spent the night sleeping next to a corpse, which isn’t very nice, is it?

So then her dad, being unusually fit, strong and capable for his age, went out and found himself a girlfriend some twenty-odd years his junior. They went on holiday together, where he died of a heart attack in the hotel – and in circumstances which led to some degree of indignation on the part of his daughter.

Isn’t it interesting how one thing leads to another?