He lit a cigarette, pressed up against the wall, sheltering from the freezing air. The cigarette would warm him. Taxis and buses clattered along the street, which was still wet from the rain. There were voices and laughter from inside the pub. It was packed. Always was at this time of year. So tiring. So much food and drinking.
Aeroplane lights crossed the starless sky. Where were they flying to? In the future no one would fly any more. And no one would eat or drink. People were scared. They talked fearfully as if it all, soon, had to end.
MW Bewick 