"It just doesn't look like he's going to arrive," weeped a dejected Jonathan Raab.
"Jonathan," I replied, "I think the dream is over."
"Hey, hold on," continued Jonathan as the front door shuddered, "what's this?"
And then it happened. Like a scene from Chariot's of Fire, in he strode. My world span round momentarily and everything moved in slow-motion as my hero entered the arena. As the shadowy figure approached, the spring in his step and the twinkle in his eye confirmed that this was Womble, he'd finally arrived, and boy did he look hungry.
Jonathan and I looked at one another, a renewed hope electrifying our bodies. The dream was alive!

"Run!" I pleaded, "Run!".
As Womble took his seat, he looked at his opponents, and with the cool of Clint Eastwood in a shootout at dawn, simply said, "I never rush anything."
