Neighbourgate (or Neighborgate if you're Merkan)

So. Upstairs neighbours went on holiday and left the keys with us to house-sit. You know, feed the goldfish, clear the daily mountain of junk mail from behind the front door, take the kids to school, that sort of thing.

Imagine my surprise when on one such visit, I stumbled across a copy of Whitehouse periodical magazine. I say stumbled, but that might be stretching the definition of the word "stumble" a tad. In actuality, it was under a pile of VAT receipts. On the top shelf of a wardrobe. In the spare room. In the loft conversion.

Never having heard of this publication before (*ahem*), I opened it expecting to read about US fiscal policy, the history of the greatest democracy in the world, Dubya's latest foot-in-mouth episode and the race for the 2008 presidency.

Gentle reader, I can only say that surprise turned to amazement as my eyes beheld...young ladies in various states of undress, in ones, twos and sometimes threes, inserting lubricated, battery-operated devices into places where the sun most assuredly does not shine^*!

Who would have thought that sweet Mrs Thingy upstairs was a closet lezzer all this time? I was so shocked at this revelation that my trousers and pants dropped around my ankles completely of their own accord. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I just hope poor Mr Thingy never finds out about his wife's fetish, he might have a stroke. So to speak.

^*Has anyone seen that film Sunshine yet? I read a review in New Scientist which said it was crap, but then it would, wouldn't it? Just because the film's premise demands a suspension of disbelief that would make the Flying Spaghetti Monster look completely at home in the Vatican. Some people are so picky. Astrophysicists, cosmologists, stellar dynamicists, quantum theorists...