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They hung my garden hose on my chandelier. But at least they took an artistic approach about it.

The coils of green plastic draped down between each crystal branch like vines off a great jungle tree. To be fair, it actually looks quite pleasing. To both ends of the hose, the museum curators found some reason for completely severing these and carefully fusing the openings together, so that the hose became one continuous pipe. The information placard on the nearest wall did not distinguish these as two unrelated artifacts, but called the ensemble my '*Showerlier.*'

I cried to a passing visitor, "That isn't right at all!" But they only pulled their children tight to them and hurried on their way.

I met Clandestine, my little angel's thoroughbred show pony, waiting for me in the next room. The turncoat didn't seem at all pleased to see me. She tossed her mane out of her eyes and neighed to the nearby attendant, who obeyed her command by providing a fresh slice of apple.

"What they called in Stanley's village a 'commuter,'" the museum attendant announced to the thin crowd. "She was likely purchased new as a sport's horse, but due to a rise in unregulated parking, the people of Stanley's time would use their horses for daily travels to work and, occasionally, on the family's road trip vacations to the queen's house."

"How do you come up with such nonsense?" I demanded to know.

The attendant wouldn't even meet my eye. "All historical accuracies have been double verified by the Nigerian Institute of White-Arsery."

"Excuse me!" I shouted. "Your institutions really use such a term in academia?"

"I admit it is a little out-dated, but for the sake of consistency to previously published works the NIW has decided to uphold the nomenclature."

I had so much more to say to this imbecile, but my attention was called away by the commotion going on in the next room. I could hear the distinct wooden rapping of a gavel on a podium.

"Next item up for bid is lot two-twenty-three," said the auctioneer. At the pull of a curtain, the entire room of bidders could see my wife's most personal toys standing proud on a glass table. "Here we have the few remaining pieces to a family game the Ogelthorpes would call '*Peggy.*' Our regional experts say the game was likely a White-Arserized version of chess, with elements of hide-and-seek."

I stood shocked into absolute silence. I remember wondering then what my wife would find harder to believe when I tell her, the appalling description of what the auctioneer went on to describe as a '*family game night,*' or that the winning bid for her '*game pieces*' could have paid for our entire estate, twice over.

​

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I'm relatively new here, but I'm on day 14 of a streak. If you liked this story, you can find more WP responses at r/FarFetchedFiction

Thanks.

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Submitted by FarFetchedFiction on Tue, Jan 24, 2023 to /r/WritingPrompts/

The prompt

A wealthy but shady antiquities dealer who steals from other countries to sell to the British Museum discovers to his horror that his family home has been robbed of all personal possessions. Three weeks later a museum in Nigeria opens an exhibit: “The Lost Treasures of Stanley Oglethorpe, OBE.”