I WAS rudely yanked out of my slumber while floating in dreamland seeking the lotto jackpot numbers.

There seemed to be a crisis in the bathroom. The toothpaste was finished, or so believed the fruit of my loins.

My daughter approached me as the chief procurement officer in my household because it seemed I had neglected my duties of ensuring we never run out of the barest necessities.

I had to think on my feet or else I’d have to rush to the stores and buy a tube to avert disaster. I enquired whether the depleted toothpaste tube was still in its cabinet and ordered her to bring it to me.

One look at the so-called empty tube told the MacGyver in me that there was still paste in abundance.

I had done it a million times while growing up and as an indigent at boarding school: squeeze the last ounce of toothpaste out of the tube.

Azania Nzapheza brought her toothbrush and in seconds, I had extracted the last iota of fluoride goodness and she could brush her shiny pearls and allow me to doze off for a while before the day started.

I had to restrain her as she readied to throw that tube in the rubbish bin and assured her there were still at least three toothbrushes of paste left.

Four if I decide to cut the aluminium tube with a razor and scrape out the last 15 cents worth.

The look in her eyes was priceless, that sympathetic look that says: Daddy, please!” Over the years I had regaled her with tales of how nothing was wasted when we grew up.

For instance, back in the days when custard was a rare treat, we looked forward to the occasion when Mme brought us Ultra Mel from her monthly shopping trips.

After the creamy dessert was finished, we’d tear through the container and expose its foil inside still gleaming with custard.

That s when the licking would start. By the time we finally disposed of it, there would be no trace of the custard.

We left absolutely nothing for the forensics to work on. That was then, this is now. These days izikhothanes do not think twice about spilling Ultra Mel just to demonstrate their culture of neodandyism.

My stories have failed to make an impression on my offspring. They look at me with great sympathy for a deprived childhood.

My pleas that stuff should be thoroughly exploited before the remnants are thrown away have fallen on deaf ears.

I even tried once to lecture them on the impact on the environment of throwing half-used stuff away.

But I was making about the same impression on them as Finance Minister Pravin Gordhan telling ministers and top government officials to cut down on first-class flights and five-star hotel stays.

However, I smiled to myself when I saw Nhlanhla Nzapheza rinse a bottle of bubble bath with water to extract maximum surfactant foam before pouring the contents into the bathtub.

Work in progress.