My grandad was a miner. Thatcher’s enemy within. Years after the strike he took me around a theme park that had opened at his old pit. He pointed out the mistakes and told me stories. He laughed as he remembered but there was a melancholy, an anger there. I thought of that day as the doors opened and we flocked in. Not the orderly lines, coffee in hand I remember. The reception desk still welcomed. The same young smile. “My floor” had the same views. That was where I sat, the water cooler corner. Over there by the VR display.