In this article submitted as part of our contest on the dangers of journalism, Sarah Feeley, of the Bristol Evening Post, recalls some rites of passage as a journalist in the regional press.

Snarling teeth-gnashing dogs were dangerously close as they chased me down the road at breakneck speed.

As I ran for my life panting like a pregnant woman about to give birth, I remembered all the people who've said: "Ooh journalism must be sooooo glamorous..."

Journalists who stray into war zones and murky underworlds in search of the truth are brave beyond words.

But reporters on local newspapers in seemingly sleepy one-horse towns dice daily with a different brand of domestic danger.

As a keen green cub reporter I was sent to door-knock a woman banned from the town centre for harassing and threatening shop staff.

My newsdesk sent me round to her house thinking if I knocked on the door and asked politely she'd pop the kettle on, settle down on the sofa and tell me all about it over a slice of Battenberg.

But when I arrived - with a photographer in tow in case things got hairy - she wasn't in the mood for a cosy chat.

Brimming with anger, she said it would be a "jolly good idea" for me to leave right away. Or words to that effect.

I turned on my heel, but stopped in my tracks when I heard the sound of something heavy with claws clambering frantically over a splintering wooden gate. And them I saw them. Two huge Alsatians.

I shrieked "Run!" and dashed towards the photographer's car, imagining the headline 'Reporter Savaged by Rabid Dogs' and thinking newsdesk were bound to make me file copy on my mobile from the back of the ambulance between taking gulps from an oxygen mask.

To my astonishment, the photographer stopped to snap the dogs running towards him. Realising I was locked out of the car and the photographer had the only key, I screamed his name and he broke off in a huff to let me in just in time.

Flash forward to my years as a court reporter and I'm cowering clutching my notebook surrounded by the ferocious family of just-jailed defendants whose case I'm covering, and they're screaming, swearing and threatening that they know where I live.

Journalists never forget their first death threat, silent phone stalker and prolific unhinged green ink letter-writer. Rites of passage, but frightening nonetheless.

My most dangerous moment as a journalist happened the night a man was killed minutes away from the newsroom. As I ran to the scene I remembered a short cut and quickly took it.

Chillingly, I later discover I was so quick on the scene if I'd gone the long way round I would have been running right towards the killer - who was calmly walking up the High Street carrying a Samurai sword dripping with blood.

It turns out the killer was a serial complainer who had bombarded our reporters with visits, letters and phone calls.

Danger doesn't always come with a flashing neon sign. It can walk into reception wearing a smart suit.

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