They knocked it down

They knocked it down. Not with a demolition ball, but with a JCB clawing and pawing at the fractured walls like an over-sized robotic lion cub. I watched through the window as the great metal arm swung and then gently scooped. The bricks, timber and steel fell obediently. I was amazed at how controlled it seemed; almost balletic. As walls crumbled and fell, a doll’s house of new walls appeared behind. I tried to recognise objects amongst the rubble. I thought that I saw a fireplace but then the great yellow arm took it. I saw what looked like a china plate still intact, but the clouds of dust obscured my view.
I heard that there was asbestos in the building, which is why the demolition was delayed. They had to send in men with special suits and masks on to take out all the toxic insulation. I felt a dry scratch in my throat, which I itched with the back of my tongue, and looked down at my sandwiches, which had started to curl in the airless office.
I thought of the times I used to eat my lunch in the building, a long time ago. Even then the rooms smelled damp and were crowded with 1970s furniture. Back then I would sit in a low chair in the bay window, and hope that no-one would join me. I would spread out my belongings on the chair next to me, and the coffee table in front of me. One tupperware, one banana, one purse, one copy of the Telegraph, one spectacle case. Every time the door squeaked open, my spine would contract with dread. I must have looked quite insular to the other staff as they walked in. I must have looked lonely. Which, I suppose, I was. But it was a self-imposed isolation; an enjoyable loneliness.
I looked back to the interior of my office: aluminium, formica and Ikea-framed-artwork covering a calico wall. Next to my computer monitor, framed pictures of Alex and the kids.
I would have liked to walk back through those tiled halls, up the creaky wooden staircase once more. But it’s too late now. They knocked it down.