King Arthur

   So his number was finally up, eh? Chickens come home to roost? Well, he’d show her, clack-clacking those damned needles with her head down, hiding her smile. He’d got out of tougher scrapes than this, by God!
   His solo ascent of Everest had been accepted without question. So, too, had the SAS mission he’d led to rescue the hostages from a British embassy in the Middle East. But playing bass guitar for the Beatles before Paul McCartney came along… Ah! That had taken some convincing. And his mentoring role to professional footballers had met with definite scepticism, until he’d sent himself a letter of thanks and signed it David Beckham.
   Arthur Stokes glanced at his six-year-old grandson, sitting patiently in the chair, awaiting an answer.
   Teachers! he thought. No more than kids themselves.
   ‘Well, yes, son’, he said, scratching the stubble on his chin. ‘Neil Armstrong was the first man to land on the Moon – with a camera to prove it.’
   Mrs Stokes dropped her knitting and hurried into the kitchen to turn down the gas.

End