Somehow, we managed to get lost in this village. Even though it has only four streets, none of them intersect at ninety degree angles. The sheep permanently obstructing one and a moor pony grazing immovably in the middle of another don't help either. As the bloke struggled to pull his car out of the large, mossy bank in which it had been lodged whilst dodging a passing flock of chickens, an amused local paused to survey us. I rolled down my window.
"Sorry, excuse me, could you tell us where The Old Post Office is?"
He crinkled his brow thoughtfully, which baffled me slightly since he was certainly a resident (see: weathered face, wellington boots, surly teenage son carrying farm implement) and there were at most thirty houses in this hamlet.
"We're looking for our friends, B and T," I added.
His face smoothed and his eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "Ah, them two," he said knowingly. "What you want to do is - oh, here, just follow, you're about a hundred feet away." Though he guided us carefully out of the hedgerows and into their driveway, it still took a good five minutes to figure out how to wedge the car between the sleeping cat and the retriever.
B and T, you see, have the distinction of being the only gays in the village.