"Dad, is Gran going to be famous?" Brad asks, peeping out at the journalists trampling our azaleas.
In the back garden my mother is inspecting the canon.
Later, she will hold a press conference from our porch to announce that she will not be using a safety net. She has knitted a cape for the occasion and has tucked her blue-rinsed hair, curlers and all, into a glitter-coated helmet.
Millions will tune in to watch her launched skyward: an octogenarian comet.
At the moment she is Deirdre Stokes: widow, mother. By teatime she plans to be the first pensioner in orbit.
FLASH FICTION 101 JULY 2020 WINNING ENTRY
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