Eulogising was a challenge under constant bombardment from falling masonry. But the gathered crowd deserved the effort. There was Honest Bob, whose cut-price bricks had won the tender and built the edifice behind us. Slick ****, the concrete king fresh from an industrial tribunal and ready to pay tribute. Fat Larry, the glass magnate, dodging the shrapnel from his wind-shattered panes, just like the rest of us.
I raised my voice amidst the crash and crumble to praise the architect. There were those who had forgotten the terrible designs that had been ******* by her dogged determination, Her clarity of vision (here, I was interrupted by three roof-tiles in succession, smashing at my feet), her strength of purpose (nine bricks and a length of plastic guttering) and her shining conviction.
But here, in the shadow of the teetering mass, we could all acknowledge her unforgettable legacy with pride and gratitude.
Champagne, truffles, and off we all went, helicoptered to who knew where happily leaving others to clear up the mess.