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One Saturday morning, I accompanied my mum to the nearby market for our weekly fruit and veg shopping. My mother continued browsing when I volunteered to take the shopping back to the car, which was packed 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. Or so we thought.

With the cart heaving under the weight of an packed load of groceries, my mum rested a box of sweet melons on top. She warned 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 crossing into the market, the trolley became lodged on the road divider in the middle of the road, and the crate of melons fell to the pavement. They scattered, dramatically tumbling out towards passersby and waiting cars.

As the little walking man switched from go to stop, I was stunned, mouth agape, trying to figure out how I was going to collect the melons shooting in multiple directions.

Suddenly, a group of several older women came to my rescue. Silver-haired, scarves and one with a cane – they looked like they had stepped out of the same nesting doll. They didn't hesitate by the cars creeping their way towards us. Utterly fearless, they just raised their hands to stop the vehicles, in each direction. They gathered all the melons for me, not missing a single one, as I repaired the box to contain them.

I expressed gratitude to them and they didn’t say a word, just smiled and gestured me farewell. I didn’t eat the melons – I was not particularly fond of honeydew melon – but I share this anecdote all the time because I love it so much.

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