Connie Brix's latest tennis ball is now a soggy, chewed-up mess. It's hardly a 'ball' anymore; just two semi-separate flaps, held togther by dried dog spit.
Connie dumped it at my feet, wanting me to throw it. I picked it up, went 'yuk' and said to Man Friday: 'This isn't a tennis ball, it's a pair of tennis flaps.'
He said: 'Ah, but Connie loves it.' So I threw it, and said: 'Dunno where they use these sorts of balls, only at Wimbleflaps.'
And Man Friday came to the back door with a disgusted look on his face. He said: 'Never say Wimbleflaps again. I've got an awful picture in my head of naked Wombles.' I laughed. But he pulled an even worse face. I said: 'What is it?' He said: 'I keep thinking of Madame Cholay.'
p.s. if you've never seen The Wombles, ignore the above.