When I check under or behind my couches, ostensibly for something I’ve lost such as a book, TV remote or my marbles, I consider finding a few R5 coins and a couple of hair bands a pretty good haul. It kind of pales in comparison to the genuine Michelangelo painting an American found behind his couch. Yes, he’d put it there 25 years ago, wrapped up carefully after a tennis ball knocked it off the wall. Still, he didn’t suspect it was anything other than a pretty picture until he had a look at it and investigated its possible value.
It’s worth £190m. Not exactly pocket change.
I’ve heard stories about South Africans finding Kruger Rands stashed in light switches, having been left behind by the house’s previous owners. All I found was an undrinkable bottle of violently green alcohol, left behind on purpose, I’d wager, and a potplant that looked like it was knocking on death’s door. Remarkably, despite my best efforts to ignore it, it has survived, which is more than I can say for any tomato or chilli plant I’ve tried to grow.
I’m quite upset that there’s nothing of obvious financial worth hanging on my family’s walls that could be passed down to me. My mother’s home is decorated mostly with paintings by my sister and other friends and family. Pretty as they are, they ain’t worth much moolah.
Bah! I’m going home to drink that green stuff tonight.