Carol’s Column

If only the ghost of old Hog would rise up and bite

Probably murder is possible under some circumstances. Let me explain.

A few days ago I was listening to colleague Magnus Heystek on 702 talking about selling houses. "Let an estate agent sell your house, because owners are too emotionally involved with their houses."

How can a person be emotionally involved with a house, I thought to myself.

That was until we decided to sell our house this weekend. Our house is not fancy in any way but it has the character of Grandmother Whistler and the feeling of a Club Med in season.

I do not keep a domestic worker but I do enlist the services of a minister of agriculture who has been planting in our garden for ever. I've always said, if I had to choose between my spouse or Loda Mphela, I'd take Loda any time. Loda, with all his many talents, grows the tallest, sweetest tasting mealies this side of the Limpopo.

However, the weekend of the show house, Mr Mphela was away on leave.

When the estate agent asked us for unique selling points, I listed the three oak trees, Arthur, Martha and Fred, the lilac chimney (we painted it so the kids could recognise the house, it's the only one with a lilac chimney in Parkwood, and they always find their way home), and the ghost of Henry the Hog.

"Ghost?" said Milly Holtz, our estate agent.

"Henry the Hog is a truly benign ghost who brings happiness to everyone who dwells in this house," I explained. The dearly-departed Hog was our warthog-like dog who lived with us for 18 years, impregnated every female hound in the vicinity and was known for his discernment in art. At Zoo Lake artists in the sun, he'd lift his leg against poor artworks. He is buried in the garden and his spirit watches over us.

We'd not had a showhouse before. "Tidy the house, go out at 11 am, and leave everything to me," said Milly.

On Saturday, anyone passing would have observed me teetering on a ladder cleaning windows. Loda, Loda, where art thou? They would have seen me scrubbing the stove, sparkling tiles, washing floors, brushing carpets and tidying up with an energy only exhibited when I jumped from a damaged single-engine aircraft attempting a crash landing at Windhoek airport some years back. Loda, Loda, come back, all is forgiven!

On Saturday night, with each petal of every flower arrangement in place, we camped under the oaks so as not to ruffle anything in the house. In my eyes, it seemed a shining temple.

On Sunday, prospective buyers arrived at 9am, two hours before official opening. Naturally, we welcomed them.

"This kitchen is ghastly, it must be ripped out," said one. I put my hand in my pocket so as not to punch her.

"Who on earth would choose green tiles for a bathroom?" said somebody else.

The thing is, with plants and palms - as we have in our bathroom, the green tiles make you feel you're sitting in a garden, I tried to explain.

"Paintwork's a bit tatty," said another. There were those who wanted to knock out bedrooms, turn the lounge into four rooms (it’s as wonderfully spacious as the Civic Theatre), and demolish our lovingly chosen light fittings.

"Gas? Who cooks on municipal gas?" one asked, berating our gnarled but extremely effective gas cooker.

"Ma, don't take it personally, they’re trying to get the price down," said my son. "Chill out."

By the time Milly arrived, they carried me to the car hands bound and mouth taped. "You're too emotionally involved with your house," she said.

Nonsense. But, I've discovered a security firm who for a thousand rand will install a machinegun mounting complete with gun at the gate which will enable me to defend my house against people who don't like green tiles, lilac chimneys, gas cookers and ghosts.

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