Dear Rapunzel,
As I write this letter, your faux castle is being built in a Richmond sub-division. The turret is almost ready, reaching up to the sky, and all we need is for you to appear and let down your long hair.
Not sure when your prince will arrive though.
He will have to stand in line behind all the residents of the sub-division who are torn between disgust and uncontrolled laughter at the monstrosity rising from the rubble of a once lovely house that is now part of a landfill, complete with non-separated gyproc, metal and glass.
This house is the joke of the city - 4,800 square feet of ridiculousness towering above all the properties, making the next door neighbour's 2,200 square foot house look like the garden shed.
We've been told the offshore owner is going to "live" in it for a year and then sell it to avoid paying taxes, so for you, Rapunzel, it's good news. Like so many, he will no doubt only give the impression of "living" there and the house will be empty so you can play your harp and sing out of the turret to your heart's content.
Don't worry about making too much noise - it can't be any worse than the noise of hammering and banging, houses shaking from the vibration of diggers, nail guns popping, constant drilling and heavy trucks arriving and leaving that the neighbours have had to endure on a daily basis.
Too late for us though, Rapunzel. Our fairytale ends here. We are moving to the land where dreams really do come true, where we know our neighbours, where houses don't butt up against fences blocking out all the daylight, where people can enjoy their gardens without being stared down on from banks of windows overlooking them, and where it doesn't look like the houses belong in Middle Earth.
And they all didn't live happily ever after.
Julie Underwood Richmond
