I’ve only had that experience once. It happened well over 30 years ago when I served my curacy (trainee vicar) on a tough housing estate on the outskirts of Bradford, my home city in the North of England.
I heard a noise upstairs — and for a while, I assumed it was my (then) wife clattering around in the spare bedroom. Eventually, I realised she was downstairs, so I hot-footed up the stairs to find a teenage boy who was obviously high on something.
I don’t know who was more surprised — him or me. He turned tail and jumped out of the window he entered through. I tried to grab him, but he shed his coat like a snake’s skin, leaving me grasping his dirty, wet anorak.