'Not yet!' I say. 'Hey! I could shout something!'

'No. But you have to say something before anyone else sees.'

'Come on! This is not a job for a man!' I plead. 'And anyway, gravity might intervene!'

'It's a hot day,' she says. 'Gravity will not intervene. You know what to do.'

And she hangs up.

Why today?, I think. I was just minding my own business!

And then, up ahead, the lady stops walking and sets her bag down. I am getting closer with every passing second, but still I have no plan. Does saying 'hitched up' sound too rude? Is it a skirt or a dress? I need to think quick!

Now I'm only ten feet away, and I see her mopping her brow once more, and in just three or four seconds I'll face the only moment I'll have to right this wrong and say whatever I can say to make this OK, but what the hell is it? ... and now it's too late, and so, as I pass her, I take a deep breath and just say ...

'Skiiiirt!'

And I stride on.

Immediately, I go red. Skiiiirt? Was that enough? That's the kind of thing people on day release say! Skiiiirt!

As I prepare to round a corner and break into a jog, I allow myself just one embarrassed moment to look back at the woman, to see if she's angry or confused or insulted, but as I do, we lock eyes, and she looks grateful, and mouths the words 'Thank you' at me.

I feel all warm.

I give her a confident nod back as she subtly sorts herself out, as if I'm always doing things like this and am totally comfortable with it.

I text my wife an update, and stride on, a man who can tick 'help a damsel in distress' off his things-to-do list, and secretly, one who's hoping he might encounter more large women with their skirts all hitched up.

SERVICES

It is late at night and I am hungry and alone on the motorway. I pull in at a service station and look up at the wonders that could make my world a better place. There's a Burger King. A cafe. An M&S. My stomach flips and growls in anticipation.

I could have a Whopper! I think. Or one of those cheese and onion toasties from the posh cafe! Perhaps a hoisin duck wrap with some of those crisps in tubes that look like Pringles but aren't!

The car park is full of other Friday-night travellers, each drawn here by the tawdry but seductive siren that is the motorway services. Steam rises from warm bonnets, and somewhere up ahead of me, a woman violently shakes a door that won't open properly.