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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 take the groceries back to the vehicle, which was packed into a small rolling cart. It resembled a Mary Poppins bag – rather compact, but it was surprising how much you could fit inside. Or so we thought.

With the trolley straining under the weight of an packed load of groceries, my mum placed a carton of honeydew melons on top. She warned me to be careful getting it back to the car.

All was going well as I made my way through the crowds of shoppers and out of the market. But as I was crossing the hectic main intersection into the market, the trolley became lodged on the traffic island in the middle of the road, and the crate of melons tumbled to the pavement. They went flying, dramatically rolling out towards pedestrians and waiting cars.

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

Suddenly, a band of several older women sprang to my assistance. White hair, head scarves and one with a walking stick – they looked like they had emerged of the same babushka doll. They weren’t deterred by the cars creeping their way towards us. Utterly fearless, they just raised their hands to halt the vehicles, in both directions. They gathered all the melons for me, retrieving a solitary melon, as I repaired the box to contain them.

I thanked them and they remained silent, just grinned and gestured me goodbye. I didn’t eat the melons – I was never a real fan of honeydew – but I tell this story frequently because I adore it so much.

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