I was working for a Welsh newspaper - not this one - when hot metal printing finished. The decision meant we also moved offices as well, swapping an industrial environment for office working.
It was the height of the Thatcher era. Her fans who were not there try to pretend it was a golden era, but that is not how I remember it.
The Government had come up with a crazy plan to charge extra rent for the same-sized house if there were kids not yet working. A sort of bedroom tax in reverse.
People had no choice but to throw their teenagers out whether they were too young to cope or not.
Soon the doorways, car parks, bandstands of West Wales were full off muffled figures with nowhere else to go.
Actually there was somewhere else, as I found when tasked with preparing a supplement on the history of the paper based on its archives, which were still at the old building waiting to go to the library.
After a morning’s work I headed off to the loo at the back of the printworks and decided to have a look round.
The ghosts which turned on machinery on workless Fridays when I was alone collecting proofs had disappeared with the power supply, so imagine my surprise when I found it filled with half a dozen ragged people.
They stared at me while I stared at them. An older chap took charge. Maybe he was the veteran. I cannot remember what he said as I was too busy thinking.
My first thought was what I could write for the front page, but that would certainly have led to management throwing them out.
The only thing I could do was tell them to stay put, stay behind the works door, and hope no one else decided to come.
Whatever happened to them I never found out. I never told anyone, not even my closest friends.
If they ever read this perhaps they’ll let us know - and we can shout for the growing number of people who find themselves in a similar position today.