I met Reg and Nigel at nine o’clock this morning. They were coming out of the Co-op supermarket with arms full of cans of Stella Artois.

‘Are you two drunk?’ I asked, incredulous.

‘You better believe it, Davy-Boy!’ Reg bellowed. ‘Been on the whiskey all night and all bloody morning, too.’

‘Wanna make something of it?’ slurred Nigel, looking very unsteady on his wobbly whiskey-legs.

I pointedly ignored him. ‘Being drunk this early in the morning will lead you to only one place, Reg,’ I told him. ‘Hell.’

‘Or the pub,’ replied Nigel.

‘Same thing around here,’ I informed them both.

It looked like Nigel had vomited sometime in the last few hours down the front of his nylon raincoat, and Reg had on carpet slippers, no socks, and what looked suspiciously like pyjama bottoms. I was embarrassed for them. I know that people around here do not always represent the pinnacle of urbane sophistication, but the pair of them looked like escaped mental patients. (Again, not something out of the ordinary for many inhabitants of the village.)

‘We’re celebrating I.T. Boy’s divorce,’ said Reg. ‘Came through yeshterday.’

‘I.T. Boy?’

‘Nigel.’

‘Yesterday? That was quick.’

Nigel leaned dangerously close to my face. ‘Not quick enough. I hate that lesbo bitch,’ he hissed. ‘When I get the chance, I’m going to shoot her in the back and make it look like suicide.’

‘You haven’t thought that through properly, have you.’

He toppled backwards into a shopping trolley, but before crashing completely to the floor, regained his balance at the last minute – as drunken people are surprisingly able to do sometimes. I held out my hand to assist him but he didn’t take it. He made a big show of straightening himself, of drunkenly dusting down his stained coat, before half-fixing me with his eyes and loudly declaring: ‘I don’t need anybody to help me. You or anybody. You especially.’

Why am I not surprised he works in I.T.?

‘Morning, Reg. What you got there?’

‘Brackets, Davy-me-lad. Putting some shelves up in Nigel’s room.’

‘He’s settling in, then?’

‘Looks like he’ll be with me for some time. His wife’s playing silly buggers.’

I felt obliged to ask for an explanation but did not. I think my eyes betrayed my disinterest because Reg just sighed.

I was about to take my leave of him when he suddenly hissed: ‘Look out! That’s her. Coming up the hill. My God, what a sight. Les alert! Les alert!’

I found speech. ‘She looks all right.’

He put his hands behind his back, and bobbing slightly up and down on his knees like a comedy policeman, began to whistle tunelessly.

‘She looks friendly enough, Reg. I think we’re safe.’

His whistling grew louder as she approached.

‘I know where he is, Reg. And I don’t give a monkey’s arse.’

She wore the same variety of beige anorak I had seen Nigel wearing a few days ago and seemed to be a fan of the same style of short, greasy hair. Although she was obviously angry about something, she seemed benign enough. I can’t say she actually looked like a lesbian. What does one of those look like, anyway? Fat? Tattoos? (That would mean that most women who live in the village are lesbians.) I really have no idea. She did, however, have a face like an underdone suet pudding and an unpleasantly husky voice that sounded like she had ingrowing tonsils.

‘Who the hell are you?’

That scared me.

‘Nobody. I’m just – ‘

‘He’s just . . . leaving. Aren’t you Davy-lad?’

‘Yes. I’m just leaving. Come on, Audrey. Goodbye, Mrs . . . erm . . .’ I nearly said “Lesbian”. ‘Lovely to meet you. Goodbye.’

Turning into Victoria Street, I told my little hairy companion: ‘I think she wanted to fall out with us for some reason, Audrey. Never mind. Let’s get back and have a nice cup of Earl Grey.’

And with that end in mind, we repaired to the house.

Reg has a new friend, a rather disagreeable little man with a penchant for buff-coloured nylon anoraks and greasy hair. Audrey and I bumped into them both this morning on the rec’.

‘This is Nigel,’ Reg told me. ‘He’s staying with me for a while. His wife has turned lesbo.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Lesbian,’ explained Nigel.

‘Oh. Well . . . right ho.’

‘Argh!’ he exclaimed. Audrey, wagging her tail in excited frenzy at the thought of meeting someone new, was trying to leap into Nigel’s arms.

‘I’m so sorry. She doesn’t bite. She’s very friendly.’

‘Get it away!’

‘She just wants to say hello to you.’

‘I hate dogs.’ Nigel was actually beginning to shake quite demonstrably. His small fat face, a puddle of blubbery abundance, was wobbling so much it seemed about to fall from his head entirely and splosh on to the neatly-tended flowerbed beside which he was standing.

Reg, smiling, interjected. ‘Have you heard, Davy? Don’t tell anyone – it’s a big secret – but there’s a new Greek restaurant opening in the village.’ Reg’s idea of a secret is something he tells only a quarter of the people on Earth.

‘Why is it a secret?’ I asked, genuinely intrigued.

‘It’s obvious,’ said Nigel. ‘All Greek people are gay, aren’t they.’

‘Are they?’ I feigned shock.

‘Of course. It’s in the Bible.’

‘Come on Nigel, let’s get going. We need to buy some red Cheddar for tea. Bye, Davy. Bye Audrey!’

I am not renowned for being overly compassionate, but I did feel a definite pang of sympathy for Reg as he led his new friend along Victoria Street towards the shops.