And when, precisely, when was it that my son, a mere ten, took control? When did the change occur? Or was it only this morning, in the hush as we heaved on our boots for the morning walk that he had promised me? Like that, the tables were turned. In the quiet of a moment I imagined was mine, he had me floored. Am I to understand he no longer enjoys our walks, that he is indulging me? Am I not authority enough? There is no manoeuvre left me now, only the absurd and overweening position of the specialist. Should I wow him with a little ornithology? Some soil science as we amble? Some folk astronomy? No, it's hopeless and so it was, impotent and waywardly bored, I dropped Thom off with his mother and invited myself over to George with a bottle of brandy. Luckily, the new girlfriend was not there but, as George tried to show me a photo of her, I feigned interest in some rubbish Picasso. I think she's blonde.