Asbestos scare locks us out of office and cancels surf event

It felt like Covid all over again; except this time we weren’t locked down, we were locked out – which is somehow both more inconvenient and less socially acceptable to complain about.

We were driving home after a funeral, wrapped in that subdued, reflective mood, when the phone rang.

It was the property manager. There had been a suspected asbestos contamination in the building, they said, and we couldn’t return until an all-clear was given.

“When will that be?” I asked, already sensing the answer.

“We don’t know.”

“How long do you think?”

“We don’t know yet.”

There’s nothing quite like a confident “we don’t know” to make you feel reassured.

Nearly two weeks later, we are still locked out, peering metaphorically through the windows of our own workplace like Dickensian orphans with soot-smeared faces hoping for news.

The timing, naturally, was impeccable. We were days away from holding our annual Surf Day; one of those rare events where logistics, goodwill and ocean tides miraculously align, giving disabled people the chance to get in the water, catch waves and experience the simple joy of soaring towards the shore, powered by nature.

Every critical item was in the office. Risk management plans, participant information, equipment lists and all the practical bits that make the difference between a great safe day and a strongly worded incident report. There were even 100 bottles of Primo drinks, kindly sponsored by Luke from On The Run distributors.

But the doors were closed. And unless someone has quietly invented asbestos-proof teleportation, there was nothing we could do.

We cancelled.

Inside the building sits the usual collection of organisational treasure: computers, board papers, files, cables of mysterious origin – and my trusty mobility scooter, currently serving an indefinite sentence behind locked doors.

We were asbestos refugees.

So we pivoted, as people say when they are trying to sound upbeat about disruption.

We’ve taken up temporary residence in shared office spaces. “Wotso” is the kind with tasteful furniture, enthusiastic pot plants and artwork with a collegial air. It’s marketed as a “community vibe”.

Adaptation has extended to transport as well. Deprived of my usual robust, nimble, streetwise scooter, I’ve been forced to downgrade to my tiny travel scooter. It’s wonderfully compact and folds down into nothing.

However, it also has a personality. Specifically, it has a habit of attempting a gentle but firm rebellion whenever confronted with hills or curved ramps, threatening to tip over backwards unless I lean forward like I’m negotiating with gravity personally.

Where I once cruised through town with something approaching swagger – up hill and down dale, with a devil-may-care attitude – I now approach every incline with the focused intensity of someone defusing a small bomb. Passers-by may assume I’m deep in thought or even catatonic; in reality, I’m calculating centre of gravity.

There’s a certain comedy in discovering just how much of daily life hinges on routine. Being locked out doesn’t just pause work; it disrupts habits, cancels plans and reminds you that the ordinary is actually doing a lot of heavy lifting.

For now, we carry on working from hired desks, making do, and waiting for the mythical all clear. One day the world doors will open, the scooter will be paroled, and normal service will resume.

Until then, we remain adaptable, mildly inconvenienced and quietly hopeful – leaning forward, quite literally, into whatever comes next.

This article has been published by the Northern Advocate.
Read the article here.

Author: Designer