They went out for their regular morning walk together, despite it being so cold.
The couple were almost home, admiring the way the frost had coated the hedgerow at the end of their street, when they heard a droning. They stopped and looked up to find a tiny ultralight plane with a solo pilot. It seemed to be very low.
He said, “That’ll be the guy from the garage; builds them apparently. Looks dangerous to me.”
The thing began spluttering.
She said, “Doesn’t sound good does it?”
He said, “Sounds like he’s running out of fuel.”
The little craft suddenly stopped making any noise at all and began drifting down, disappearing behind distant trees. Moments later, a pillar of smoke came up.
“He must have crashed somewhere!” he said.
“Oh! Dear Lord!” she said. “I hope he’s alright. Do you suppose you can jump out of those things, you know, before they hit the ground?”
“Dunno. Hope so, for his sake,” he said.
“How dreadful,” she said, slowly shaking her head.
“Awful!” he said.
They both shuddered as a bitter wind whipped along the street.
“Come on. Let’s get in,” he said, “before we both come down with pneumonia.”
“Yes. You’re right. We’ll need a hot drink after this, I’m perished,” she said.
They went back into the house, only to find that the electricity was out.
“He must have hit wires,” she muttered, moving off to put something warm on.
He stood in the kitchen rubbing his hands together, looking at the dead kettle.
“Bloody amateurs,” he whispered.
