I had enough money to build a house on a hill.

So I started looking for a hill.

I found one, with a view.

If this was to be my hill with my house, I went to the top to see the view. It would be my view.

It overlooked a valley. My valley. So far so good.

Then I did the research.

I needed to know who owned the rest of the hill. How old were they? Did they have children? Were the children likely to move away and sell the family property to developers who would intrude upon my view or pollute the neighborhood with undesirables?

What about the valley? Who owned it? What were its prospects?

I wanted to look forward to a peaceful older age, a venue I could cherish and depend on being there.

Then I had all the experts come in, the city with permits, the seismologists who would plumb my hill, tell me how safe, what kind of granite underpinning, would the edge of the summit hold up to a house that wouldn’t slide down, that sort of thing.

The prognoses were positive, the permits paid for, construction began to an architectural vision mutually agreed upon.

I planned ahead, bought out the neighbors, and built my mansion like a castle on a hill.

I had two swimming pools, one sliding down into the next.

I had a wrap-around terrace to host cocktail parties, and a stage for the musicians.

I was ready for the inaugural unveiling.

I sent out invitations. I alerted the press. I called the TV News.

They answered the call and came from far and near.

My first party, initiating my domain.

I spent a fortune on caviar.

I was chatting comfortably with the notables, each of us holding our champagne glass.

“You went to a lot of trouble!”

“No trouble not worth the effort.”

“And the seismologists assuring you stability up to the very edge!”

“Yes, it would take an earthquake to shake me loose.”

Just then, the earth began to shake.