My particulate scrubbers have filtered lethal impurities for centuries amongst a flickering neon skyline, ever-evolving like a graphic equaliser.

As you’ve grown, so have I.

So, as you decommission me, treat me with the care I have treated you – I am you in a sense – and know that in three years when I’m replaced, you’ll have cleaner air, more efficiently.

But in the acid rains you’ll no longer hear my song.

Yours always,

Big Ben