Two fat ladies

This morning I decide to visit a recently opened wool shop in a neighbouring town which has a big selection of fancy buttons, to find something suitably glamorous for the cardigan I have almost finished knitting.

I am a bit late setting out. Last night Gordon, Jeanette and I had dinner at Jackie and Charlie’s which was a gourmet evening, during which Charlie dug deep into his wine cellar.

Jackie is a former cookery teacher, so we know we will enjoy fine food. As she serves thin pancakes wrapped around cheese, rocket and prosciutto, Charlie produces a bottle of Cloudy Bay Sauvignon Blanc, which – to his amazement – he spied on the shelves of the new wine shop in Pitlochry.

“I grabbed it straightaway,” he says. “I couldna believe ma luck.”

You can purchase Cloudy Bay at another local wine merchant, says Charlie, but you are only allowed to buy three bottles at a time, so this new source of supply is a welcome find.

Charlie and I explain why Cloudy Bay is so special.

“It’s a bit like when people used to queue up to buy the latest release of Beaujolais Nouveau back in the 1970s,” he says.

“It’s developed its own hype.”

“Yes,” I say, “except that Beaujolais Nouveau always tasted pretty thin and foul. And you could buy it by the case.”

Next Charlie serves up a bottle of sauvignon blanc from Jackson Winery.

“This comes from just across the road from Cloudy Bay, but I think you’ll find it tastes quite different,” he informs us.

He is right. And it went very nicely with Jackie’s skewered prawns, mango salsa and mixed leaf salad (home grown from the garden).

Barely have we drained our glass of Jackson’s, when Charlie is extolling the virtues of his next choice – a Californian Geyserville Zinfandel from Ridge. In his view – and apparently in the view of many wine reviewers – the best zinfandel wine in the world.

Alongside Jackie’s tarte tatin (which is absolutely the best apple pie I have ever tasted, but fear not, I have asked for the recipe), this full-bodied red is delicious.

Next comes the cheese, and a large decanter of port.

In the time-honoured way, Charlie insists we pass the port around the table to our left.

“Do ye ken why the port is passed to the left?” he asks, rhetorically.

“If a man passed the port with his left hand, it meant he could keep his right hand on the hilt of his sword, in case any of his enemies took the opportunity to challenge him while he was distracted.”

Obviously, he wouldn’t just chuck the decanter of port in the face of his enemy would he? Why waste a good drop, when a quick swordfight across the dinner table would quickly despatch one of the duellers, and then the drinking could resume.

So, understandably, it was a slow start this morning, but by midday I am entering the portals of the wool shop with bated breath and hammering heart. The excitement of being let loose in this emporium stacked floor to ceiling with finest Aran, mohair, tweed, merino and silk in a dazzlingly array of colours sweeps aside any lingering sore head.

Two fat ladies sit on a sofa.

“Hello!” says the dark-haired one, as I walk in.

“Hello!” I say.

She looks at me, surprised. Then I notice she has the phone to her ear and is greeting her caller, not me.

The other lady, the brown-haired one, comes to help me choose my buttons. She looks at the three options I am considering.

“I like a bit of zing,” she says, picking the brightest one. “When something is hand-knitted, it should have zing.” I dare not argue, so I now have six blue and silver buttons ‘with zing’ for my cardigan.

Flicking through a pattern book I find the most darling jacket which requires to be knitted in the planet’s most expensive wool. The dark-haired lady coms to help me choose wools. Five colours are needed.

“Let’s look at all the colours,” she suggests, and pulls a sample of all the available colours – about twelve – off the shelf and we sit together on the floor, surrounded by balls of wool, trying out various combinations. After about thirty minutes, we finally make our decision. I have become a little peripheral to the choice, by this time, but I heartily approve her selection.

While I wait for a few heart-stopping moments while she checks she has enough skeins in stock, I notice the brown-haired lady is hand spinning wool at a wooden spinning wheel.

“That looks very restful,” I say.

“Aye,” she says. “I can sit and spin for hours.

“I’ve even been know to fall asleep, but my hands keep on spinning.” Miraculous.

Back at home I telephone Jackie to thank her for a lovely evening. No sooner have I put the phone down, but Jeanette rings.

“I felt a bit slow this morning,” she says. “I think we had a few glasses of wine. How did you feel?”

“I drank loads of water,” I reply, wisely.

“That’s a great idea, I should have done that.”

“You left your handbag behind.”

“Och aye, I did.”

“And you didn’t get up til eleven o’clock.”

“How do you know that?”

“Charlie told Jackie that you were still in bed when he dropped your bag round. Gordon came to the door in his dressing gown.”

And then I add, needlessly, “This is a village, you know.”