You can actually taste what’s happening here. It’s the taste of the dust and the dirt that’s being stirred up by the machinery; it hangs in the air and lands on your tongue. Tomorrow, it will all be dust.

The noise is constant: the drilling - metal hitting concrete. The shouts of the workmen. And the rumble of the trucks as they head up the hill from the River Kelvin. The only other noise comes from two Glasgow seagulls having a square-go on the roof of a building nearby.

The high-rises themselves are looking rather beautiful in the March sunshine, although I know not everyone would think that about the Wyndford high-rises – it’s the kind of brutalist architecture that divides opinion. A local man has stopped to look at the flats and I ask him if he likes them. He does a face; not sure. I take a picture of the flats and send it to the architect Alan Dunlop, who’s campaigned to save them. “It breaks my heart that they’re coming down,” he says.

But it is going to happen: tomorrow, Sunday March 23rd, exact time to be confirmed. One of the four high-rises will be taken down slowly, bit by bit, for safety reasons. But the other three will be destroyed in controlled explosions, and they’ve already been stripped back to stone skeletons in preparation. There’ll be a crowd of onlookers because there always is and who can blame them: it’s a spectacle. Big bang. All gone.

The question that needs asking though is to what extent the explosions, the demolition, the destruction, is being done to the community rather than by them. I spoke to

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