Running Bare

What happened last night is the stuff of films. Really. You know, where the heroine just happens to go outside wearing only a towel, then she loses it, gets locked out of the house…you know.
It doesn’t happen in real life now, does it?
Except it did. Sort of.
I live in a nice semi-detached in a fairly quiet road. I cycle to work, go jogging twice a week.
I’d just got out of the shower after my run when I remembered I’d left my running shoes outside the front door. Why didn’t I wait to get dressed before I went to fetch them? Who knows? Anyway, I didn’t. I despair of myself sometimes. I nipped downstairs, towel tightly wrapped around me. Opened the door, only to see next door’s Golden Retriever making off down the garden with one of my trainers (brand new, top of the range Nike) in his slobbery mouth. So of course I took off after him.
I caught him before he reached the gate. There was a brief tussle, then victory. I had my shoe.
Unfortunately, my towel had slipped off in the process. Caesar grabbed it, charged out of the gate and off down the road.
What’s a girl to do? Yes, you guessed it. I streaked around the side of the house, clutching a strategically placed shoe and threw myself through the back door.
That dog certainly lived up to his name this morning: Seizer.
I might suggest he is renamed. And rehomed.