Mirth and Woe: Wardrobe (quite possibly Of Doom)

Mirth and Woe: Wardrobe (quite possibly Of Doom)

In 2002, we fled the turd-strewn big city and settled down in Weymouth, the jewel of the south coast.

In exchange for a suitcase full of cash, we took possession of a charming semi-detached not five minutes from the raging tumult of Weymouth Bay and set about making the property our own.

Our new bedroom was dominated by a large floor-to-ceiling fitted wardrobe with mirror doors. Yes, it made the room look twice the size, and yes, there was the scope for some doing-it-in-front-of-the-mirrors kinkiness, but the charming Mrs Duck told me it had to go.

And go it did.

I took a week off work in order to get a few jobs done, such as getting the French doors to stay closed, clearing a decade's worth of ivy from the back of the house, and throwing out a shed-load of rotten deep-sea diving equipment the previous owner had left behind.

"Heh," I said, "All this rubber gear… room-sized mirrors… I wouldn't be surprised…"

"You disgust me," she replied, and I conceded that my warped imagination might be running away with me.

So, suitably chastised, and watched by a small audience of coffee morning attendees, I set about the mirror-fronted monstrosity in the bedroom.

After lifting off the huge sliding doors, the rest came apart relatively easily.

"Oooh, isn't he good?" said one of the wife's new friends, as part of the behemoth yielded to a ten-pound lump hammer, "I wish my husband was this handy round our house."

And as the audience looked on, I prized away at a panel with my trusty crowbar, and out it poured from the cavity behind.

Porn.

Torrents and torrents of porn.

And not just any old top shelf smut.

This was highest quality Dutch and German filth that covered virtually every kink known to man and goat.

Most of it, tellingly, was of the rubberised variety. And, if I were in the business of exaggerating these tales for comic effect, one of these gentlemen's leisure pamphlets was entitled "Diving Belles".

The wife and her friends were – quite rightly – disgusted with the entire discovery. As was I, telling them I would dispose of it into the skip on our drive FORTHWITH, after I had vetted its suitability for landfill.

After several month's exhaustive research, I concluded that it was not suitable for landfill.

And now – this very weekend in fact – my charming wife has me assembling a monstrous floor-to-ceiling mirrored wardrobe in exactly the same position the scud mine occupied not six years previously.

Which is lucky. I'm running out of space in the shed.