ABSTRACT
My mother adores hospitals after a first unfortunate visit when she went in as a child to have her tonsils removed and cried because it was the Passover and nobody brought her the prescribed unleavened bread. There were two visits to the Oxford Maternity Hospital in Liverpool at which, with her dead to the world, her daughters were surgically removed from her abdomen. When she came home with her second bundle of joy she brought with her a half-completed jumper suit in black wool flecked with silver which she had begun to knit but abandoned because she couldn’t be bothered. It knocked around the house for years, ending up as dusters. I bet it’s still somewhere in the world, indestructible though incomplete.
