Mr8 has informed me that he is going to the moon. Not anytime soon, you understand. But one day. He has it all planned. He will go to uni, he will become an astronaut, he will walk where Neil Armstrong first walked (conspiracy theories aside).
The boy who will not go to the school canteen by himself is going to the moon.
“Won’t you miss me?” I ask, looking for a few last drops of the Mum worship that he had in spades right up until about six months ago.
“Sure,” he says, flicking his Margaret Pomeranz fringe out of his eyes (note to self: haircuts need to be scheduled more often than every school holidays). “But we can Skype.”
“Or,” he adds, coming over for a quick hug allowing me to get a little hair ruffle in, “I’ll send you a postcard.”
Having a blast. Wish you were here.
So what exactly would you write on a postcard from the moon?