The sun was peeking out, and the annual great wardrobe swap-over had just taken place (prematurely it turned out, given the weather this week) so I donned my favourite maxi dress and headed out the back door.
I was eagerly anticipating my trip to the recycling centre (is it just me or is there something highly satisfying about putting the right bottles in the right places?), to be followed by the library and supermarket.
It was a big day out. You can imagine how keen I was to be off - except I was stuck; quite literally, in the door. The bottom of my dress was caught in the locked door, and no matter how I jiggled and pushed, the door did not want to open.
It was at this point I did what any 21st-century girl would do - literally "lol" at myself then take a quick snap to document my latest Bridget Jones moment.
Then my predicament dawned on me. It wasn't quite "Sophie's choice", but I was faced with ripping/ruining my favourite dress or slipping out of it and running down the driveway and around to the front (street-facing) door in my underwear.
The answer was clear. Why ruin a perfectly good dress? Just to be sure, I put the pic and the question to my hard-at-work colleagues via text.
The answer was unanimous - undie run! Which is how I came to be sitting against my back door in the middle of the day, wiggling out of my dress and doing my first ever undie run, laughing to myself the whole way around the house.
My decision to buy the home on a quiet cul-de-sac over that other one on the main drag proved a good one. I didn't see a soul and, I think, I got away without traumatising any small children or pensioners.
Unlike the last time I found myself out on the street wrapped only in a blanket awaiting rescue. But that's a story for another day.
