It's a proud wee terracotta beastie, rising up on its haunches, wings spread, to greet the sun and the cloud alike. It stares up at the passing planes as they glide down to Heathrow, counting the hours, the days, the weeks, the months, the years, the centuries. It's our Clock Of The Long Now, older than us all and destined to outlast our scurrying little lives.
It looks down on Putney, it watches and it waits.
I like it a lot.
Every street needs a dragon.