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One weekend morning, I accompanied my mother to the local market for our weekly fruit and veg shop. My mother continued browsing when I offered to bring the groceries back to the vehicle, which was stuffed into a small rolling cart. It was like a magical bag – quite a small thing, but it was surprising how much you could load it up. That's what we believed.

With the trolley heaving under the weight of an already full load of groceries, my mum rested a carton of honeydew melons on top. She cautioned me to be cautious taking it back to the car.

All was going well as I made my way through the throngs of shoppers and out of the market. But as I was crossing the chaotically busy main intersection into the market, the trolley got stuck on the traffic island in the middle of the road, and the crate of melons tumbled to the pavement. They scattered, spectacularly rolling out towards pedestrians and waiting cars.

As the little walking man changed from green to stop, I was stunned, mouth agape, trying to process how I was going to retrieve the melons shooting in multiple directions.

Out of nowhere, a group of several elderly ladies sprang to my rescue. Silver-haired, scarves and one with a cane – they looked like they had emerged of the same babushka doll. They weren’t deterred by the cars inching their way towards us. Utterly fearless, they just held up their hands to halt the traffic, in both directions. They gathered all the melons for me, not missing a single one, as I repaired the box to hold them.

I thanked them and they remained silent, just grinned and gestured me farewell. I didn’t eat the melons – I was not particularly fond of honeydew – but I tell this anecdote frequently because I adore it so much.

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