Ambushing our posterity
No, me neither.
Odd, isn’t it? Home is where most people live out their most private moments. Home is where we are more like ourselves than anywhere else. And yet when we die, or move out, there’s almost nothing left of all this intensity. Very few traces. No ghosts, no messages, just names on old legal documents, and the memories of the street’s older residents.
Doing the refurbishment thing on my office, which still isn’t fully kitted out yet, we decided to leave some messages for the house’s next owners.
Five, ten, twenty, thirty years down the line, they’re standing precisely where I’m sitting now, shaking their heads in disgust at our appalling taste in interior decor, and set to it, tearing off the wallpaper in great strips …
We left them some messages about taxmen, the greatness of individual members of the Byrne clan. The daughter also wrote in barely legible orange felt-tip: “Dear Future Generations, the gold is hidden under next door’s cat. Love, the Present Generation. xxx”
Wonder if the felt-tip will fade over the years?
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