As with shadow, you never find in your child what you want to find.

So, Thom and I, to Madrid. Via Goya. No-one's identity, even before September 11th, ever survived an airport. Yet as our plane steadied in the sky, Thom and I managed to assemble a few fears, some concerns, to reassure us of each other. But as we landed I sensed that Thom did have a very real concern. How would he ever explain this trip to his friends? Of course, Thom loved our reckless escapades but was this one, finally, trying his patience? We had a frank chat over a burger and chips and he decided, reasonably enough, to tell his friends he'd checked out Spanish football and Barcelona were simply the best. The sheer finesse of his deception filled me with pride but I was also welling with a terrible pity which even a furious display of arm waving failed to dispel. Nevertheless, my charade got us a taxi and we clambered in. In a desperate attempt to maintain the momentum, I pulled out the print of the Nude Maja and told Thom everything I ever knew about Goya.

We studied the guide. On the way to the Maja, we discussed the possibility of any toilet humour in the paintings of Van Loo and Ranc, and for forms sake we stopped by Las Meninas. Finally, we reached the Goya. I gasped and felt an urge to stamp my feet. And then the union between Thom and I that had lasted the whole journey began to falter. While I was thinking of his mother, naked, closing the curtains on a Sunday morning long ago, Thom seemed to shrink in front of the picture, looking even younger than his nine years. He turned away and a minute later, head lowered, I saw him slowly texting someone. It was probably a friend. Nevertheless, we had come here to see the source, the original, and all we'd found was Thom's mother. As we returned to the hotel, we tried to lift each other. It's a great painting, he said.

Later, he said it again.

Why's it great?

It's her face, he said.

And so, not wanting to disturb the astounding profundity of his remark, I let it hang between us. On the flight back he even thanked me for taking him and I began to wonder what he'd say at school tomorrow. Would he tell them he'd seen Barcelona play a cracker, or would he tell them the simple, glorious truth that he'd seen a fucking great painting and as we tensed up to enter the airport, I felt my entire life would hinge upon the answer.