Since Monday, when I decided I was coming home for the weekend, I longed for Friday, the couch and a robust glass of red. I’m back in the Midlands sans le Boyfriend for the first time in a while.
Tonight, on arriving at the house, I walked into my old bedroom. Some random objects were spread on my bed.
“Mum, what is this stuff on my bed?”
She shouted from the kitchen. “I was clearing out some things from your room.”
I get a little defensive when Mum rifles through my belongings. There isn’t much. She has a four bedroom house. I ask if it is too much to expect a few boxes of my personal effects to remain untouched. I refrained from protesting. Instead I examined the contents of some unopened boxes.
The cardboard containers, similar to archive boxes, were full of college notes – marketing, statistical analysis and business policy. They were old and dog-eared. Some notes dated back to eight years ago. Those days are long gone. I emptied the box to the floor.
“I can’t believe I still have these,” I exclaimed.
Mum joined me in my room. She watched with satisfaction.
I opened the wardrobe. In the bottom of my wardrobe were more notes, magazines, bank statements and official documents. Stacks of paper, plastic folders and A4 pads formed a mound in my bedroom. I discovered some gay magazines; Attitude, Gay Times and the now out of print Gay Ireland. The covers were raunchy. I didn’t recall leaving these at home.
I felt around inside the wardrobe and came across yet another magazine. This one was different.
“What the fuck is this?”
“What is what?” asked Mum in supervisory mode.
“This magazine, Irish Wives. It’s a porn magazine. Look at it. Disgusting! Who left that in my room?”
I’m a big fan of porn, but this magazine was just nasty. The images were authentic; these women could only be Irish housewives. A selection of mature ladies posed next to ironing boards. One wife spread her legs akimbo on a kitchen counter. The magazine was creased, giving it a much used look and feel.
“Ewwww!” I threw it to the floor.
“Are you sure it’s not yours?” Mum asked.
“It’s not really my preferred type.”
“It’s not mine either!”
“I should hope it’s not, Mum. That would make for a major lifestyle choice. Do you think it was Dad’s?”
“I don’t know,” she said, leaving the bedroom.
I thought on how the rag mag ended up in my wardrobe. Guests that stay in our house tend to sleep in my room. The magazine could belong to anyone. I speculate my brother once stashed it in my room, thinking Mum would never ransack the room of her then most favoured son.
My brother paid a visit yesterday. When we confronted him, he denied ever seeing the magazine. He was so entertained by the tale of discovering the magazine that I believe him. The mystery on who in our household possessed a penchant for real, household women will forever remain unsolved.