Saturday afternoon I'm in hot heaven - down in the sunken rose garden at Tyntesfield house, camera at the ready. Not many roses blooming yet but lots of pompom alliums and these bumble bees in their own nectar humming heaven.
Robin is behind me up the steps gazing at a tall chalice pot of dead headed tulips. He calls out to me.
I drag myself away from the bees and climb the steps.
What are these? he says.
Tulips - but the flowers have gone.
Can I eat it? he says breaking off a piece of the flopping green leaf.
No, it's not a herb. He knows it's OK to try a herb if I point it out. He hunts for wild garlic remorselessly on our walks.
You mustn't eat it - it could make you sick.
I don't think it will but I'm trying to teach him not to eat any random leaf or berry or flower in the wild or in garden borders.
I'm going to, he says.
I try and stop him.
He whips the leaf behind his back and then straight into his mouth and chews it up.
I know I must put some distance between us. I walk back into the rose garden, not seeing the roses, not seeing anything - just breathing - looking at the gravel path under my feet.
He follows me, miserable, till I stop and tell him why I'm angry in my tight lecturing voice.
Later, after we both say sorry I try and imagine what it must be like to have so little control over your life any more. It looks like I have all the power, I'm always right, I know everything because he can't remember it any more, and he has to totally depend on me. Except when it comes to what he puts in his mouth - he can be in charge of that. And how can I blame him?
His one grab for power in a flapjack or a tulip leaf.
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