Or, for non-Bristolians, On Tuesday evening I reversed into a dyke. Yes, and before you start, all those jokes have been done already.

I was trying to turn round on a farm track, and thought I was stuck in a wheel rut, until I stepped out of the car to see what was behind me, and plunged knee-deep into freezing muddy water.

When you've all stopped laughing I'll tell you the rest of the story.

So there I am, in the middle of nowhere, shivering with cold, and my car is doing a fair impression of the van in the last scenes of the Italian Job.

A Nissan Sunny pulls up, full of hoodies. Having ascertained that I am ok, they decide amongst themselves that their mate's tractor isn't going to get my car out of the ditch. One of them shines a torch whilst I phone the RAC on my mobile. I tell them the recovery agent will be at least an hour and a half.

"You're cold" says the guy I now know to be Chris. He fetches the blanket I keep in the back of my car for emergencies, something I would not have attempted owing to the steep angle my car is at. "Tea or coffee?" he asks.

He and his friends drive off and, after ten minutes or so, Chris returns with a thermos full of hot coffee and a mug. "You can't wait in your car" he says, "I'll leave my car here so you can keep warm, I'll just go and have my tea".

Off he goes, leaving me sat in the Sunny, keys in the ignition, radio on, heater on full blast.

An hour later he returns, and sits with me until the recovery vehicle arrives, the perfect gentleman.

As soon as the RAC had winched my car out, Chris said his goodbyes, but not before I had almost tortured his address out of him.

Miraculously, there was no damage other than a small dent to the offside sill of my car, a bigger dent to my pride, and a rather large hole in my wallet in the shape of the winching charge. Oh, and I fear I have lost my glasses; they probably fell off my head as I fell into the ditch.

Memo to self: Check for dykes before reversing.

Epilogue: Yesterday I returned to the scene to search in vain for my glasses, and to deliver a bottle of wine and thank you card to Chris. Being unable to find his address, I stopped at a cottage and knocked on the door. A rather posh gent answered. I said I was looking for Chris's house and on hearing the address the man told me it was tucked behind a clump of adjacent trees. "I shouldn't go round there, though, if I were you" he said.

Memo to self: Never judge a book by it's cover.