With the cost of living hitting the roof, what better way to prepare for Christmas than selling unwanted items for extra cash? I decide to dip my toe into the murky waters of Facebook Marketplace. What could possibly go wrong?
I’ve only experienced this platform as a buyer, which is straightforward: you see an item you like, contact the seller, agree on a time to go to the person’s place and pick it up, cash in hand. If it’s a large item, you take a large vehicle. (Everyone who owns a ute, sorry from the rest of us.)
Little did I know the other side. For sellers, Facebook Marketplace is crawling with bots, time-wasters and (presumably) 12-year-olds who are pranking in the same way Bart Simpson did calling Moe’s Tavern on a landline.
Let’s take the king-sized bedframe that I needed to get rid of after moving house. People warn against putting something on Marketplace for free, so I put a nominal number, $25. I list my suburb. I list the dimensions. I say pick up only. Cash only.
My Messenger starts going off like a call centre. I’m fine with the hundred “Is this still available” messages (yes, that’s why it is, in fact, still listed). But it is so cheap that I am irked by the people who want to know if I can take it apart for them. And the million other questions.
What is the location? (The one that is listed, my friend.) Will I deliver? Can I give them the internal mattress measurements? How much did it cost new? Will I take 10 dollars off? Five? Can I hold it until two Tuesdays from now when their uncle is back from his holiday so he can pick it up in his ute? Can I hold on to it while they book an Airtasker to dismantle it and pick it up?
There are the bots who inundate you with questions about postage and dodgy links.
And then there are those who want to come and look at an item and you spend an hour arranging the best time only for them to ghost you. Or they come and talk at you for 30 minutes and then decide not to buy.
A friend was selling some used school uniforms for $30. A woman came to pick them up, handing her a tenner and a twenty which was torn in half and taped back together.
“This isn’t legal tender,” my friend said.
“I’ve had no problems using it,” the woman said.
“If you’d used it, you’d no longer have it,” my friend replied. She ended up giving the woman the uniforms anyway.
Another friend has been selling her deceased parents’ furniture for the past year. She is full of stories like the people who turned up with a tiny car to pick up the 2-meter-high bookcase that was listed with dimensions. “It happened a few times so I started saying in the ads: you will need a vehicle that fits the item. See measurements.”
I guess not everyone has a friend with a ute?
Or the people who bought a bookcase for $20 only to message later and ask if the small mark on it was caused by termite damage. “I said: ‘This item belonged to my parents who are now deceased and therefore unable to provide me with the level of detail you require’. They didn’t message again.”
There are the buyers who ask a hundred questions then say, never mind, and meanwhile you’ve sent them more messages than you sent your mother in the past year.
And the ones who are desperate to lock it in and then say, airily, “I’ll pick it up sometime this week.”
Oh excellent. I’ll just be waiting at home for your call.
Or those wanting to trade for items that you neither need nor desire. No thank you, I will not accept your old trainers as a trade. I do not give discounts because you had to drive further to pick this up. It already costs only $25. Oh fine. Just take it.
I persevere. I list a basketball hoop and stand. Dimensions, pick up only, cash only. “Do you deliver?” “Can you dismantle?” “Does it work?” “Can I buy the backboard only?” “Is it suitable for a 16-year-old?” “Can I pay via electronic transfer?”
Yes, it is still available.
• Eleanor Limprecht is the author of What Was Left, Long Bay, The Passengers and The Coast. Her next novel, Cul de Sac, will be published in 2026 by Ultimo Press
