Womble Massacre

Those poor wombles. Exiled to cold, foreign lands (the garage) after a grievous assault (they were peed on by the cat). They languished (in a carrier bag), forgotten (no, really) for many years (again, really).

Until today.

Their saviour (my wife) hired intrepid explorers to hunt out these missing litter collectors (I chanced upon the carrier bag while gathering items for a run to the recycling centre), and set about healing their physical and emotional wounds (via the power of the automatic washing machine).

They are returned.

But their basked glory (drying on the radiator) was short lived (they were needed for a blip). Their previous benefactor (daughter) had disowned them on their resurrection (she pretended to be too old for cuddly toys), and soon they were sport... (I am thinking dogs this time, the weak bladdered cat is sadly no more)...

It's a womble massacre... only one person can save them...