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One Saturday morning, I accompanied my mother to the nearby market for our weekly fruit and veg shop. Mum was still looking around when I offered to bring the shopping back to the car, which was packed into a little red trolley. It was like a Mary Poppins bag – quite a small thing, but it was surprising how much you could fit inside. Or so we thought.

With the cart straining under the weight of an packed load of supplies, my mum rested a box of sweet melons on top. She warned me to be cautious taking it back to the car.

All was proceeding smoothly as I made my way through the crowds of shoppers and out of the market. But as I was navigating the hectic main crossing into the market, the trolley became lodged on the traffic island in the middle of the road, and the box of melons tumbled to the pavement. They scattered, spectacularly tumbling out towards passersby and waiting cars.

As the pedestrian signal switched from green to stop, I was stunned, speechless, trying to process how I was going to retrieve the melons rolling in multiple directions.

Out of nowhere, a band of several elderly ladies sprang to my assistance. Silver-haired, head scarves and one with a walking stick – they appeared as if they had stepped out of the same babushka doll. They didn't hesitate by the cars inching 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 hold them.

I expressed gratitude to them and they remained silent, just grinned and waved me goodbye. I never consumed the melons – I was not particularly fond of honeydew – but I share this anecdote frequently because I love it so much.

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