Exhibit F may well be the final straw.

Late afternoon. The midday burning sun has given way to a glorious orange glow; everything looks like it's been dipped in nectar. Warmth coils around bare skin. The heat so comforting it hums. A group of men have escaped the clutches of their employment for the day and are relishing a game of football. Friendly jeers. Squinting eyes in the light. Scissor kicks of limbs. The dull thudding of the ball.

The ball.

Beyond the scene, beyond the goal posts and between some trees in the near distance stands the stout figure of a young beagle by the name of Monty. A four-legged ball bandit. His head follows the movement. His eyes reflect the ball. No sound can distract him from the plump leather delight he has in sight. Ball. Ball. Ball.

Within seconds he's in amongst the throng of men; lolloping over with his cutest uncoordinated lollop. They pause to admire the plucky young pup who's joined their numbers. He spins. He leaps. He even throws in a few tail-chasing antics to delight them but little do they realise, as they grin and coo, that he snakes ever closer to the now stationary globe. The glorious orb.

Then he has it. He's off. Holding his prize aloft with pride. Zig-zagging victoriously with a jaunty, frankly arrogant, run.

I chase. I lunge. I dart. I try to bribe with meatish treats.

He darts. He twists. He turns. He even seems to grin despite his anaconda-like grip on the ball.

TWENTY MINUTES I spent chasing that dog. The manners and chivalry of the men was starting to ebb when the sight of another dog at the other end of the field finally encouraged him to relinquish the stolen property which was by then convincingly punctured. Whilst he sped off to antagonise the poor unsuspecting Labrador, I was left to blushingly apologise and then give chase once more, lead and poop bags in my flailing arms over to the next exciting episode.

I think it is well and truly game, set and match. I give in. You win Monty.