Being alone in the garden brings a kind of peace, but my feelings about my mother are still very fragile. They seem to take two forms: there is an almost ‘spiritual’ or ghostly aspect when I feel she is with me but in a disembodied way. I can hear her and I feel she loves me, and is with me – I am not alone, I am not deserted or rejected. It is almost like being wrapped in something warm and soft, and protective. And then there are times when I relive that last week of her life, and it is deeply distressing all over again. And now the few pieces of furniture, china and pictures from South Africa which surround me in London remind me of her physical presence, which has gone. And then I miss her. She cherished her orchids.