I am packing my bags and lo, my crap is multitudinous.
I’m heading off into the big wide yonder very soon and selling the excess mementos I’ve gathered over the past year and a half is proving more difficult than I thought; it turns out people don’t like buying random junk (go figure).
In this age of cheap products that’ll work once or twice (kids these days!), I’m quickly learning that not everything I treasure will inspire others to part with their cash. In point of fact, most things I own.
There are the shoes with holes in the soles – possibly they enjoy profiteroles they stole in Seoul – but still protect 80 percent of my feet from the pavement. There is the Russian doll set I lost most of the dolls from.
The problem with selling even the items which don’t look like they’ve been run over by a very upset tractor involves the easiest way to sell second-hand possessions viz, the Interweb.
Like any entrepreneurial effort, marketing is key and if my efforts in the world of TradeMe equivalents are anything to go by, don’t buy shares in any of my future companies.
I’m just no good at ‘creatively advertising’ my products – I tell it like it is. My brother once set out to buy a ‘guitar amp in perfect condition’ only to find that said condition was, in fact, non-functional.
And you’ve got to make the ads interesting – the one item I did put some creative flair into in a fit of frustration, entitled ‘Giganto Suitcase’, got responses faster than any others. It’s a pity that, in a similar fit of emotion, I’d figuratively kicked the luggage down my stairs in an abjuring gesture – and literally, off-loaded it onto friends.
There are also the efforts that weave such a good tale, people bid purely to show their appreciation, such as the now legendary dimensionally challenged Scary Washing machine. My one attempt at a full-blown joke ad was for a bed I’d bought with the most cursory of glances in Christchurch, only to find on closer inspection that someone had obviously been murdered or given birth on the mattress.
Titled ‘Possibly Haunted Bed’, my ad wove a tale of possible demonic possession that kept giving me bad dreams about angry cheeses on legs. One good exorcism should sort everything out, I said, and as such, a young and old Catholic priest team might be interested.
I received one pity bid from a friend and dumped the bed with my landlord. Thanks to my reluctance to digress from plain speaking in my online ads, I suspect much the same will happen with possessions here – unless any readers fancy buying a half-collapsed parasol?
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