The Concorde came down low over our town, over our street, over our houses. It was sleek and white and it made surprisingly little sound.
The Concorde had a long slender nose that ended in a point. The nose came into view as the plane loomed above our neighbourhood then dipped down too low to fly above our heads.
‘Get down!’ one of us cried, throwing down his ball. ‘Hit the dirt!’
We all hurled ourselves to the ground, and hoped the Concorde would pass over us. I lifted my head as it flew just above our bodies. I felt the surge of the huge machine, its wings almost dropping to the ground; I felt its mass ripple across my back.
Luckily, none of us was hit, and we jumped to our feet to see what the Concorde would do next. It veered right, one wing almost landed on our yard; it cleared the fence and accelerated.
The Concorde flew low and straight towards the neighbours’ house. It plummeted into the front door. The long white nose seemed to fit snugly inside their door. There was no smoke or noise, but the Concorde had come to rest, pointed in the house.
We picked up the ball and climbed over the fence, some scurrying under it, others running around to the gate. We hurtled up to the house, staring at the Concorde lying there at the entrance.
We knocked on what was left of the front door of the house. We clambered over the Concorde’s fuselage, its smooth white body. We tapped on the outside of the Concorde, we looked in through the little windows. We could see the air stewards inside serving drinks; we could hear the survivors, talking and laughing.