Ahh, the wondrous images conjured by South Wimbledon Tube Station... So evocative of a bygone era. Very 1940's. War glamour - red lipstick, silk stockings, the clatter of heels, curled and coiffed hair, the promise of a soldier in uniform offering a light for a long, ever-so-white cigarette. The setting for many a period film, for many a fantasy.
Then I rock up with two cohorts. Carrying various items of crockery.
A prettily dressed leggy lady, lumbered with a huge hiking backpack strapped to her intrepid explorer frame. A smart-shirted young man in desperate need of a toothbrush, and armed with a ladle (brilliant defence against tube muggers - bop, bop, bop on the head).
And I. In my pyjamas. Tucked sexily into socks. Socks which don't even belong to me. Sporting yesterday's make up, a floral scarf at my throat, and all topped off with a slightly sickly smile at the situation.
The large chap across from us - eyes closed, huge shiny purple origami bird in his hat, with a rune-decorated staff with a crystal attached to the top in one hand, two silver balls which he fondled contentedly in the other - no doubt thought we could easily be recruited into his cult, being, as we were, tube-travellers of a certain ilk. An ilk of eccentricity.
Thankfully we escaped his clutches, clattering crockery as we minded the gap. Then home for a shower, teeth clean and a change into silk stockings and fresh coat of lipstick, ready to await a 1940's war hero.