Ambushing our posterity
Don’t you ever wonder about what all the people who lived in your house before you were like?
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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Eugene Byrne 
What if someone else finds the gold first?
No great disaster. The cash-for-gold firm only offered us £4.50 for it anyway. Also, next door’s cat doesn’t exist. Also, if it did, it would be moving from time to time.
That’s next door’s cat, not car, as I mistakenly put in the original post, now corrected. The gold is hidden under next door’s *cat*. Except it isn’t really.
Typical! I catch you out and so you change the original text to make the story more credible! Hmph, journalists.
Yeah, you never used to be able to do that with print!