Perhaps unsurprisingly, the enormous trench outside our only functioning door is of immense interest to the Four Little Seymours. I keep finding them in it, scratching pictures in the concrete, or carving out the surrounding mud, just to make the situation that little bit more treacherous and exciting.
They have discovered treasure there, too. To me, a filthy 1960s medicine bottle may not be of much significant archaeological importance. But to a Little Seymour, it’s pretty damn special.
Which got me thinking.
We have a large pit at our disposal. Even after we injected it with hundreds of quids’ worth of molten stone, there’s a bit of room left before it is “back-filled”.
Big Seymour is currently out there, “getting it out the ground”. (I have had to resist the urge to add “of the ground” as I type – I am finding this builders’ dialect hard to stomach). But even when our moat is surrounded by mini ramparts, there will be space. Space to bury stuff.
No sinister thoughts, here, please. I had enough trouble banishing those from my own mind when the footings were dug. I was genuinely concerned that we might unearth someone. I mean, it does happen.
The stuff I am thinking of burying is not sinister. It is educational.
“We shall make time capsules!” I announced, with much enthusiasm, to the Four Little Seymours.
I was met with blank stares, followed by looks of confused disdain. Boy Seymour did a couple of open-mouthed sniffs. Then they all acted like I’d said nothing, and got back to the more important business of watching The Dumping Ground.
Undaunted, I tried again.
“We will make little memory tins, and bury them for people to find in the future!” I was not to be discouraged.
The concept of the future is a hard one. To write notes and hide mementoes for people you will never meet or know about is perhaps a little unsettling. But I got them to do it anyway.
And yesterday morning, the Four Little Seymours all sat around the kitchen table, with their chosen container, and started to communicate with folk from another time.
They struggled. They didn’t know what to put in. I tried to explain that it was like renovating a two hundred year-old house now. What might we find? Who might have put it there? I mistakenly then went on to describe how people of old used to bury live cats behind their walls to drive out evil spirits with their death throes, and that, if the Little Seymours wanted to see such a cat, they only had to go to the local museum, where its dessicated body is on display. I think I nearly put them off the whole idea at that point.
Write a note, I then jovially suggested. Pop in a few things that will tell the people in two hundred years’ time about life in 2016. So they did.
I now have four little canisters of varying sizes lined up on the window ledge.
Mini Seymour’s is, as you can probably imagine, basic. She has etched her first initial into a purple bit of paper over and over again, and included a two-pence piece.
Boy Seymour has worked quite hard. He’s sketched his dream about tractors, thrown a few coins in, plus a plaster.
Little Seymour Number Two has written what look like sacred scrolls. She’s added jewellery and yes, more money. Plus, lots of shells. She obviously sees a future without molluscs.
Little Seymour Number One has joined in without complaining – and because she’s getting all big and clever, suggested writing down the current population of the world, so that future folk would have the benefit of that information.
I was quite impressed. When I told her that they’d have all that data online anyway, she quite rightly explained that we didn’t know what systems there would be in 2216, and all that might have been lost. That’s a sobering thought from a twelve year-old.
Now, all that remains is to bury our time capsules. I’m trying to think of the best site, where they stand most chance of being discovered – at the right time. I’m worrying that they’ll be missed, and lay undiscovered forever. All that thought and effort, for nothing.
So…I have changed my mind. I’m going for the optimistic stance. The world will still be intact. Nuclear war will have been avoided, and the internet will be better than ever. Future people will not need our data, nor our coins and jewellery. They won’t need our plaster either.
Those capsules are going on the top of my wardrobe, where I can go and find them, open them up and indulge myself in these memories.
Because they won’t be Little Seymours for long.
(A perfect Time Capsule, thanks to Kenco Millicano)
