My weekend? A delight, yes, yes. Well, have I ever been lonelier?

It may, possibly, be a little early to use Thom in lieu of a social life, but there we are. Who wants me and my anger? But after all, anger does work, it does the job, it keeps people away. Certainly, it has served me. Nevertheless, Thom is almost adolescent and has taken to ringing me at all hours for no obvious reason (aside from spying for his mother, of course) so I felt it appropriate for another of our adventures. So, with lusty chambermaids in mind, I booked us a flight to Liverpool with two nights at the Hilton, all with the express purpose of gazing, forlornly, at Edgar Degas Little Dancer Aged Fourteen.

I am, of course, a keen advocate for all Degas' women, fiddling at their toilette, arses in the air. I love them all. However, his girl dancer simply made me wince. To my surprise, Thom took out a sketchpad. He mumbled something and began to draw. I tend to barge in and fuss all over his solitude, except when fishing. And this was another moment he chose to own. Quietly, I took myself off to find relief with Bonnard's wife, the rather depressed Martha.

For all my training, I cannot explain why, or even how I felt. Certainly, there was the pleasure in his company. Yet a well of loneliness fell between us, which neither of us could articulate, or separate from the other. That evening, after pizza, we called his mother. Thom wants to try some of my brandy, what do you think? As if I have ever asked anyone's approval over anything. No, he can't. And with that, the answer we both wanted, we headed for the hotel.

Later, while he slept, I found his picture of the dancer. It was exquisitely detailed, both the skirt, and the strain of thigh muscle and yet, as if it were altogether too much, he had drawn no face. I went to bed, thinking of my own mother, dead when I was his age.

I went to bed, remembering that I believe in ghosts, and wondering, too, what my son, the artist, was trying to tell the world.