It's the night of my birthday party, lots of people are here, though we're still expecting more. One or two of the guests disappear to an anti-Trident action I hadn't heard was going to happen, and I wish them luck. Someone middle-aged and vaguely familiar comes in and says that it's quite a standard thing to come to a party, greet everyone and then leave again, so I leave him to get on with it.
In the front garden there's a huge amount of old stuff - furniture, ornaments, it feels like an antique shop, and I wonder why. Then I hear the banging and I realise they are demolishing the building from the top down, with sledgehammers and so on, right in the middle of my party. It's quite a spectacular thing to see, but obviously I am troubled that my building is being destroyed and nobody told me about it. I ask my mum and she says oh! I thought you knew about this?! And I say no. No, I might have postponed my party if I had. Oh, she says. Sorry about that. I ask if they're going to stop before they get to our floor and she says no, she doesn't think so. They've been moving our stuff out of the way, but I have to tell them to stop the demolition for the sake of the party.
Nobody listens to me, if they can even hear me over demolition sounds. In frustration I grab a bunch of butter knives and try clanging them together, then I throw one down on to the pavement and it makes a semi-satisfying sound as it bounces worryingly there, but it's all to no avail.
I end up sitting in a deck-chair on the already-demolished first floor, in the pouring rain, in the light of the streetlamps, wishing I at least had a working camera to capture all this picturesque devastation.