...'WARNING - ADULT CONTENT'...
“That’s one hell of a bush”, I said to 
"The Bush House" was situated on a regular street and looked completely out of place. I would guess the local kids would mark it as 'creepy' or 'haunted', but the gate and its exposure to casual passers-by would likely be sufficient a deterrent for any inquisitive eyes.
There was most definitely a ‘crack’ hidden within that dense foliage, but had this vagina lost its virginity enough for us the crawl through?
It didn’t matter as we had been given some comprehensive instructions on how to penetrate “The Bush House”, and this was... walk up the left side, open the gate, turn right, slide the bottom-most part of the fence away, and crawl under... the back door is open.
We snuck up the side entrance in our familiar ninja stance and passed the gate with 
A young boy’s face stared at me in horror, his mouth opening a second later, despite my impromptu non-presuasive motion of 'shhhhhhh' complete with the finger at the mouth.
‘Daaaaaddd, there are men outside..., DAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDDDD"
Oh fuck, it was time to move. I quickly followed
“DAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADDDDDDD.............”
“What’s all the fucking noise about you little bastard, come here now….”, screamed ‘Dad’ with rage.
Smack, slap, smack, thump…, “stop fucking making tales up about men outside”, slap, smack…
Aaaaaaaaahhhhh, owwwww, scream, cry, even bigger cry…, "...but dad, those men….”, he wailed…
We had heard enough and by that time were scrambling through the back door and hoping ‘Dad’ was not going to believe all these ‘lies’ about those fake men outside.
Fortunately, nobody pursued us, and inside we both broke down into semi-silent guffaws. That poor kid, it must be a recurring issue for him. That’s what you get for being a serial prevaricator.
The room we landed in was full of books sprawled across the floor. I would have a closer look shortly, as
The view told me of perhaps an old woman, limited to a wheelchair and one who liked sewing. The sewing machine was gone, at least from the other device which was powered by your feet.
My grandmother had one of these and I instantly recognised it and its former purpose.
A purse or wallet, but sadly not bulging with wads of banknotes.
That ‘thing’ attached to the right side of the wheelchair is not an enormous upside-down light bulb, but a little trick of the photograph.
I snapped this only to gain the name of the previous inhabitant, one 'Miss Clayton'. Was she the owner of the wheelchair?
I started up the stairs, and I think it’s my photograph that makes them a little wonky looking.
Miss Clayton liked her jigsaw puzzles. It's something I used to partake in as a kid, now it's a complete waste of time, and alone would be intensely boring.
It's tough to make out but I think it reads, 'Iodine Tincture' and is an antiseptic that makes you literally jump out of your skin. These days TCP rules the roost and likewise comes with severe feedback if you place it on fresh open wounds.
The red box contained nothing but cobwebs.
Not even a block of soap to clean off the muck, …uck.
So that’s what happened to the sewing machine.
Spotting some magazines spread around on the floor I was amazed to see they were vintage porn. Miss Collins, you dirty girl.
It’s ‘Dear Dierdre’ 1967 edition, the year of flower power.
I noted with interest the 'Parade' magazines showed some not-so-skinny chicks on the front pages. Was it not necessary then for models to be stick thin?
Intrigued by such an ancient magazine of the pornographic flavour I leafed through a few pages and discovered an astonishing lack of ‘Bush’ or Vagina's. Did all that start in the seventies I wonder?
A bare room, with nothing but porn and museum pieces.
“Are you going to leer over those magazines all day?”, mused
I had seen plenty of ‘Knave’ magazines from the decade after, but never anything this early. Some images needed to be snapped and he thought I was being a pervert?
"It's strictly for the history archives", I retorted in a serious voice.
I’m sure that’s a 78 RPM disc, and even more sure it won’t play in its cracked form in a cassette player.
… but I wasn’t done with the magazines yet.
‘In Praise of Pubic Hair’, was this a serious article about the liberating identity of the ‘Full Bush’ or a tale of a young shaver? I started reading noting the contradictory style of the title, but it quickly turned out to be a 'porn story' reminding me of my days of twelve years, and finding and reading a similar story.
“Fucking hell man, are you going to read porn all day”, came another dig from
“I’m educating myself about early pornography”, I stoically replied with a grin.
Miss Collins, I am shocked! I can now see how you entertained yourself, now did you trim your 'Bush' with those rusty scissors?
Could we escape through that window and avoid ‘Dad’? It crossed my mind.
For once, it’s not a ‘Singer’.
“The Bush House” was in quite poor shape inside and suffering from extreme dampness wherever we looked.
No date on this, but I am guessing it's from the sixties. Ms. Dors was a Marilyn lookalike but got a little more puffy-cheeked post-fifties. Not that I can remember any of this shit.
Slimming scams touts never change.
Upstairs was definitely more interesting, but sadly we had to leave at some point.
I made my way to the ‘book room’ intent on having a little search. It didn’t take long to find even more of the same material. Miss Collins was an avid reader, but some material catches the eye more than others.
Now I do remember ‘Fiesta’, from a copy found in some public toilets sometime in the seventies. It was most educational for the young 
This is what happens when your darkest secrets are left behind. The little old lady, disabled, with her sewing machine, spends her time completing jigsaw puzzles and is a closet nymphomaniac.
It took some time but lounging on that uncomfortable-looking two-seater flanked by a stack of suitcases and trunks, I spotted another type of ‘Bush’.
Was she a beer guzzler? Some parts of this puzzle were simply not fitting.
Lots and lots of books, some of them neatly stacked. The local kids don’t seem to have vandalised this one.
Only found in houses from the sixties, even the house I grew up in had more modern light fittings.
Finding the ‘crack’ we stole through the front window of the house, breaking the hymen apart, and climbed the front gate, not caring about who saw us or whether it was going to collapse.
‘Dad’ would never find out the truth.
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