I feel shortchanged. I went all the way to Wimbledon and not a Womble to be seen. Why else would one venture to zone 3 if not lured by the possibility of sighting Wombles wombling free?
What I did see however was:
Actual streets - proper roads with terraced houses and everything.
A perfectly pruned, chocolate-box pretty tree, bearing tiny white flowers, overhanging a little wooden gate leading to one of the terraced houses that is no doubt home to a young family of 2.4 children who call their parents Mummy and Daddy and are already grade 8 standard in both piano and violin.
A great deal of pancake batter*. Not necessarily all in the frying pan.
Perry experiencing a sugar high. Chocolate flowed liberally through his pancakes, chocolate flows liberally through the man's veins.
A living room. Lounge. Sitting room. Whatever you want to call it. The fact is, the flat actually had one. Aah, sofas...
An Oxford educated Classicist attempting to rap about the Emperor Augustus. Braap!
Too many re-fills of red wine.
But no Wombles. Or, indeed, yummy mummies. More disappointed about the Wombles.
*Incidentally, I don't think I will be giving up anything for Lent. I'm not one to emulate Christ. I mean, look what happened to him... I'll take the pancakes though.
Oh dear, the devil and I would have probably ended up being BFFs in that desert.