The new pond (replacing the knackered old pond) is having its foundations put in, and I had an old, inaccessible hard drive to dispose of. Since we’re doing this job in the most unusual of times, I thought it was a good time to dispose of the HD and write a letter to the future owners of the land at no. 71.
So I wrote a letter to whoever finds it, added a photo of us, packaged it all up and in it went, under the concrete.
When the place is razed in 100 years’ time to make way for a car park (if electric hover-cars will even need a place to park), they’ll find three grinning, slightly tired and bewildered tea-drinking faces staring up at them, plus a hard drive full of pictures by the little business that operated from this exact spot for a few decades, and lived through a historic, epic pandemic.
I’m not sure whether to be chuckling at my own sentimentality or feeling emotional, but right now it’s a mix of the two, and it feels like a soothing thing to do.
It’s impossible for me to visualise anyone else living here but us, but someone will, one day. I hope they have a chuckle at us, too!
(We found some little treasures in the ground too, along with a coal seam from when the coal shed sat above the spot - the house was built in 1893, so there are bound to more treasures as yet uncovered!)
