Rain lashed the pavements and the wind howled through the perfectly pruned trees that lined the street. Coyote and I trundled slowly through, Monty's wipers doing a fabulous impression of the Techno Viking. We were hunting for Smints, but we felt uneasy.
All the houses were three-storey Georgian affairs. Their bijou handkerchief gardens all had immaculately coiffured lawns and rose bushes; ornate iron garden furniture stood gleaming against the red brick frontages. This wasn't our territory. This was the territory of...
Coyote floored the accelerator and aimed for a handbrake turn at the end of the cul-de-sac; we couldn't stay here any longer. God knew what fate we would face if we were to get trapped!
As we approached the end of the road, something caught my attention. I gently placed a hand on his arm. 'Wait. Look...' I pointed to a house to the right and Monty slid to a halt. 'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?'
He nodded, grinning. There was one house that had a shed. Not an ordinary shed, you understand...oh no. A BOF shed. It was the size of a garage; built from Canadian cedar with a thatched roof. The heavy double doors were ajar.
A quick risk assessment told us that we would be safe to have a little shufti. If there's one thing we've learnt about BOFs, it's that they don't venture outside when it's raining. Perhaps they're scared they'll shrink or something.
So Coyote deftly hid Monty behind a row of gold-plated wheelie bins and - doing our drunken ninja impressions again - we stumbled along a wall to the shed. What would it contain? The excitement bubbled in our chests like Guinness-induced indigestion.
We saw it as a kind of urbex; we would pop into the shed, have a look and leave. BOFex, if you will. Of course, it was highly likely that we would be disappointed. The shed might contain shelves and shelves full of Chelsea boot polish, Rachmaninov CDs and books about sailing. But still - the opportunity to learn more had handed itself to us on a silver platter and we weren't about to pass it up.
The doors swung silently on their brass hinges and we both stood in silence; our jaws hanging loose as we gawped inside.
Bacon. Not actual bacon - but bacon things. Bacon cushions...bacon popcorn...bacon toothpaste.
We already knew that BOFs are partial to pig; but this was just incredible. We took some photos to review back at Penderyn Towers; just to prove to ourselves that we hadn't been hallucinating.
Do you like bacon? BOFs do.