The woman heading my blog is not just any pin-up girl, nor is she a virgin– though she will be on the nose of the Virgin Galactic. She’s Richard Branson’s mother (of course, this drawing is based on a picture taken about 60 years ago). Normally, there’s nothing charming about being a “mamma’s boy,” but Richard is the exception to the rule. He’s got all the charm in the world, and it has a lot to do with his mom.

I met Eve Branson at a champagne reception just a few days ago; she was making merry near a table lined with the expected delicate flutes filled with champagne. I wasn’t sure who she was at first, but I was determined to introduce myself to this 80+ year old little lady who had managed to bypass the frivolity of skinny flutes and was making grand gestures with a gigantic goblet of whiskey on the rocks.

“Are you going up in the spaceship?” she asked me, with a twinkle in her eye.

We clanked our glasses together and I said that yes, I do plan on going into orbit on Richard’s ship.

“Well, dear, I’ll make you a nice cuppa tea before you go. I’m Richard’s mother, so of course I’m going up in the mother ship and I’ll tell you all about it when I return so you’ll know what to expect.”

I’m almost looking forward to having tea with Mrs. Branson more than I am to the Virgin Galactic flight. Mrs. Branson flew gliders back when most women were still in the passenger’s seat of their husband’s car. She is a full fledged pilot who trained with the Royal Air Force and did her part in WWII. But Mrs. Branson is hardly an old, festering war vet– she’s got a spring in her step that dates back to her days as a dancer and actress, and she seems to be the type who is in the habit of enjoying herself and everyone else.

“You must meet my husband, Ted, ” she said, bringing me over to a rosy-cheeked, jolly old fellow with a few wisps of white hair gracing his crown. He sat in a stately chair, watching the youngsters walk by (most of the party is in their 50’s, and Ted is nearing 90). I introduced myself and, as I stand almost 5 ft. 8 in my heels, Ted had to cock his head at an angle a bit higher than was comfortable to talk with me. “Oh, just sit on my lap please, it’s much easier!” I hesitated. “Don’t worry dear, you can’t break me,” he pats his knee and, feeling a bit like I was six years old and sitting on Santa’s lap again, I told him all about my dreams of becoming an astronaut and how much I am looking forward on taking a ride in Richard’s space ship.