When I arrived, they had already started pulling apart Checkerboard Tobacco and Book Exchange of Windsor. Two guys in orange hi-vis were moving above the now-empty pale blue shelves, CD racks and vinyl. They pinged back and forth through the swinging saloon half-doors that had once separated the adults' section from the rest.

Boxes of DVDs, CDs and records were on the floor, along with ankle-high slush of junk and refuse: old phone card ads, sleeves of rollie papers, old Christmas décor, empty sleeves of Friends DVDs, dust jackets of Ian Botham books, and that was just the top layer. The hi-vis men were, improbably, French, chattering away, as they took to the place with swing hammers, and piled up a pyre of panels in the centre of the store. "Bof enfin," whack, "ah m’en fou ta guele," whack.