My Dad was a keen amateur artist and used to collect magazine photos to paint pictures from.*
Of course he didn't just paint buildings. On the traditional pre-xmas gift hunt, my brother, aged about 9, found a battered suitcase hidden in our parents' room, stuffed full of girlie mags. This would be the late 60s or very early 70s so the poses were coy rather than brazen and only boobs and bums were on show.

Bro showed me his find and we had a good laugh. He then foolishly asked our mother about it and we both got a frenzied belting. As usual, I was thrashed harder for being older and leading Bro into trouble, even though I'd known nothing about it until he'd shown me. Most unfair.

Our mother's puzzling over-reaction and consequent warning to NEVER mention Dad's 'art books' again EVER on pain of further violence didn't stop us sniggering about them in private. For many years, even the mention of the word 'art' would have us nudging each other and giggling.

Exploring the local park in the following summer holidays we began finding 'art books' stuffed into bushes and between tree branches. I thought everyone's dads must be trying to find places to hide them from their nosy kids. Ahh, the innocence.

*This worked surprisingly well and I still have a lovely painting he did of Florence, from a tiny photo in a travel article. I visited the city a few years ago and took a picture of my kids in front of the same view.
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 12 Aug 2011, 8:40, Reply)