Hidden marks

In the tiniest bit of concrete laid for the tiniest bit of wall, two sets of footprints will remain for as long as the wall stands. It might be 20, 50 or 100 years - who knows. I've always placed my sentimentality in a childhood surrounded by antiques and the love of nostalgia. I can't explain the excitement I feel when I unearth something fabulous in a charity shop - whether it's a knitting pattern from 1937, coffee cups from the 1970s or an original penguin classic. When our chimney came down last year, the builders came across an empty packet of cigarettes tucked away with a date of 1926 inscribed on its side. The older the building, the more hidden the treasure.

My late grandparents lived in a Tudor cottage on the river - I was convinced they had priest holes and more tucked away. It was a house that creaked with mystery and legend. One summer I excavated a patch of their garden - driven by an unsolved murder my grandfather told me about. Needless to say, Nancy Drew and the Famous Five featured heavily on my reading list. No bodies were unearthed, but I did come across beautiful broken crockery, discarded smoking pipes and an intricately decorated toilet which was most odd. 

Our footprint will be left in the changing shape of the house, and the bits that we pop in our front wall. As odd as that sounds, our existing wall is a hodge podgy of wine bottles and doorknobs, bricks, tiles and anything else that the original owner could lay his hands on. My parents have kindly donated a couple of items which the builders are going to incorporate. I do like the notion of legacy, however small.