My Auntie should be working in forensics for those cold-case police investigation teams.
When I was a wee slip of a lad I'd spend every Tuesday at my aunties. From time to time I'd need to sneak out a little poo and to pass the time on the pot would invariably fiddle with her fascinating array of bathroom assortments.

One one occasion I'd got my hands on a 'bath pearl' which appeared to be a squishy ball of bubble bath abou the size of a large marble.

While grunting out a little log I found myself squeezing the bath pearl in time to my strainings. About the same time as I gave birth the pearl went pop and spaffed all the way up her bathroom door, which was some brown cheap jobby off of the early 80's, and it wasn't painted.

The soapy mess soaked quickly into the brown wood and I thought nothing more of it.

A few weeks later she quizzed me as to what I'd been spaffing up the door. I was just around the age where little seaman gabber was indeed producing the lubrication for his little Seamen and when questioned immediately thought she meant I'd been wanking up her door.

Best way out - Deny absolutely everything and she seemed to let it pass.

At my 18th birthday party which was a good few years later she triumphantly announced to the family that she'd rumbled my game and proceeded to tell me that it was a bath pearl that had left a suspicious stain up her door for the next 6 or 7 years.

When it came for them to replace the door she took a sample of everything that had been in the bathroom at the time and squired it up the door until she'd got her answer.

I cheerfully owned up to it, gleeful that after all that time she'd finally realised I wasn't pasting her door with pre-teen man goo.

Few years later when she was approaching that 'certain age' she had a son. I feel sorry for that poor blighter.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Thu 3 Jun 2010, 16:52, Reply)