‘I know, and I’m sorry I did that, but my point is, Meg, your speech is supposed to be about what space means to you, and you,’ he pauses here to point at me, ‘are currently missing from your speech.’

I feel a lump form in my throat. I knew my speech wasn’t perfect, but I thought it was just a matter of practising it. Now Grandad’s suggesting the whole thing is wrong. Down by my feet, Elsa starts to pull herself up on my legs. I hold on to her to keep her steady. ‘Just say my speech is rubbish,’ I say with a laugh.

‘It’s not rubbish,’ he says. ‘It’s … safe.’

‘Safe rubbish.’

‘You’ve got plenty of time to work on it.’

For a moment, I feel like dropping the cards on the floor (Grandad doesn’t have a bin; the floor is his bin) and forgetting about the competition. But I know I can’t do that. Yes, I want to go to Houston, but this competition means so much more to me than a free holiday. I’ve read enough autobiographies to know that people who become astronauts have pushed themselves beyond what they believed they were capable of doing, and they never gave up. If I give up on doing this speech, then I’m basically giving up on my dream.

‘Maybe I could tweak it,’ I say, scooping Elsa on to my lap. ‘Explain why I’m so fascinated by Alpha Centauri B.’

‘That would be brilliant!’ he says, then he drains his cup of coffee. ‘Now, I’m going to fire up the hot tub.’

Grandad’s ‘hot tub’ is a rusty old bathtub in the garden that he heats with a bonfire. I don’t want Elsa going anywhere near it. I don’t really want Grandad going anywhere near it, either.

‘I’ll take Elsa home,’ I say. ‘If she goes to sleep I’ll take another look at my speech.’

Grandad waves us off at the door, a box of matches and some lighter fluid under his arm. ‘Hey,’ he calls after me, ‘why not add a flour mountain?’

‘Not really relevant, Grandad.’

He looks disappointed. ‘Egg in a bottle?’

Back at the flat, I take a look at the laminated mission plan I made with Grandad. ‘Just over a week until Mummy’s home,’ I tell Elsa, as I cross off this morning.

‘Mamama,’ she says, banging her hands on Pongo’s belly like he’s a drum.

I stare at today’s square: Sunday 15th March. Suddenly, I get the feeling I’ve forgotten something … Something important … And then I remember: I’m supposed to be at Fusciardi’s!

It’s nearly three. Is Rose already sitting there, looking up expectantly each time someone walks past?

I shake some bricks out in front of Elsa and start to build her a tower. Rose isn’t my problem. Elsa’s my problem. My speech is my problem. Grandad sitting on top of a bonfire in his Speedos is my problem!

Elsa’s so excited by the pig I’ve popped up at the top of her tower that her eyes light up and her fingers spread out like starfish.