Ever Had A Parent Who Is A Serial Hoarder

The auctioneer rang off the figures like some experienced rap artist at a variety show ‘P500, do I hear P700, P800 there, P800, P800 is that a bid P1, 200, P1, 600, P1, 600’ and on and on it went until an innocent looking lot that started off at P400 had climbed to P2, 000.

The old dusty sofa set which looked like a buffalo with a horrible skin disease had now quickly morphed into some sort of masterpiece and a crowd of hoodwinked hoarders were furiously trying to outbid each other for it.

Amongst the lot was my dad, the champion of hoarders. He beat everybody and the lumpy skin buffalo was going to my house. My dad felt like a thief in the night. He called it a steal but for me, a bewildered teen, it remained a buffalo. I had the unenviable task of loading the sofa onto the bakkie, a very embarrassing moment. On the embarrassment scale it would top arguing with a food vendor about how small the food portion on the foam pack is and then finding your crush waiting for her turn right behind you with an irritated face.

Editor's Comment
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