Bending the Truth

I'm crouching beneath my windowsill. At the front door of our house, courtesy of the live link from the national news station feeding into my muted TV set, the echo of photographer's flashbulbs startle my confused father's face. I huddle with my 'blankie' and eventually hear the uncertain knock on my bedroom door.

"Millicent Abigail Rogers." Dad uses my Sunday name, and joins me under the window; the room illuminated by the odd pop of digital lightning through the curtains. "What is this all about, eh?"

"Oh, Daddy!" I burst into tears. "It was such a silly little thing. I can't think how it ended up like this..."

And then I tell him everything. How I just so happened to be at the Royal Institute with some pals, and how we got a little squiffy with the Christmas free bar, while we waited for Reggie to finish up the paperwork for the next lot of funding for some clever research programme. How a journalist had assumed I was this top-notch visiting Russian physicist, and, as I'm great at accents, I hadn't bothered putting him right (well, he was awfully pretty, with piercing eyes, like Christian Bale), and then, all those other clever people coming over and congratulating me on finding some weird 'x axis negative particle thimngamie'... Honestly, it was hardly my fault when I found myself swept up onto the lecture room stage, handed a lovely gold statuette and a huge cheque!

"I would have handed it back, Daddy," I sob into his cardigan, "but, then this woman came marching in and started calling me all sorts of names... I bet that handsome journo won't ever call me."

"Oh, don't be too sure, sugar. When I was at the door, he said he'd love an exclusive."

(298 words)