Mum licked her ice cream and squinted up through the blue breaks between clouds. "I'd say that's a Tornado."
"That would explain the warning on the weather this morning," I joked. Nobody laughed. Instead they traced the jet's flight path with their mint chocolate chips.
"It's flying a bit low," Dad muttered.
"And fast," my sister added.
As if on cue, the Tornado whooshed by, rumbling the clouds like thunder.
"Those get up to Mach 2," Dad said, checking his phone. "That's about 1,550mph."
I looked down at my hand. A small yellow dollop of jersey cream slid down between thumb and forefinger. Cleaning it with a serviette, I glanced up again.
"Looks sort of like the mouse cursor on an old Windows desktop," I decided.
"It would have to be white," my sister pointed out.
I shrugged. "True."
Even so the black angular arrow kept weaving through and around the clouds as if searching for an operation running in the background.
"There might be an air show nearby," Mum said. "It looks like it's biding time."
The jet did so for a while, managing to avoid our cameras whenever it swept past low. Eventually we wiped the corners of our mouths, brushed wafer dust off our clothes and returned to the car.
As the Tornado jet sank behind a pure white cloud, I swallowed the tip of my cone.