Dog and I were picking our way gingerly along a footpath this morning. It was the kind of neglected footpath where brambles grow unchecked each side, so walkers are confined to an increasingly narrow foot-wide groove in the middle.
We were making slow progress. Dog hates getting her feet muddy, so in between checking out promising gaps in the bushes for rabbit presence, she adopts a slow and cautious bandy-legged waddle. She also hates not being in front, so resists my attempts to overtake.
Just a few metres from the stile, a runner appears behind us. The kind of runner that I always feel a deep pity for. Lined face, bandaged knee, scrawny - all the signs of a compulsion that appear more detrimental to health than beneficial. Despite seeing me in front, he doesn't want to break stride and stop. Presumably he wants me to fling myself into the hedge so he can pass unchecked.
I decide instead to hurry the remaining metres to the stile, where there is room to stand aside. But it is slippery and as I lurch, my arm flings out for balance. And the poo bags I am carrying snag on a bramble.
I pull them free - and they tear, sending a stream of poo backwards on the path behind me. The runner sees them and leaps to avoid. Lands and skids on the mud. Careers into me and sends us both into the brambles. I come off best, for I am in jeans, thick jacket, gloves, hat and walking boots. He is in thin Lycra.
We are both irritated. But I politely disguise my view of someone who knocks you over and blames you for it. He, however, picks himself up and carries on running, screaming abuse about effing dogs and their effing owners.
So if you, the runner, are reading this, I would like to say the dog poo scattering was a complete accident. Definition: an unforeseen event, something that occurs unintentionally or by chance.
But, if I should meet you again, it might become a recreational compulsion as footpath rage seems to be the next triumph over good manners.
