When I’m not busy stewing in a dark pit of misery, lamenting the dire state of humanity, I’m actually quite a pleasant little person.

It’s true that I once thought altruism was a behavioural disorder – which, to an egotistical little monster such as yours truly, I suppose it is.

I’ve never understood all this unselfish, caring nonsense, as my children will tell you.

Caring to me involved nicking two of your mate’s cans and leaving at least one of them in the fridge.

It was only recently that, having survived a near-death experience in which my soul was pulled from the gates of hell, I was floored by the selfless and kind actions of my rescuer.

He didn’t have to save my life, he didn’t even know me, but he went out of his way to help me.

I was standing outside Morrisons, choking back a huge bag of Doritos.

I had to eat them all before heading home, otherwise the kids would be sticking their germ-laden little trotters in the bag and I’d be stuck eating waffles and a jar of baby food for my tea again.

As a chilli heatwave lodged itself in my throat, my life flashed before my eyes.

They say that when you’re on the verge of passing over you remember all the important things that made your life complete.

I just saw a massive cigarette and some scones.

As the remaining air was leaving my tar-filled little lungs and my black heart that was proven via X-ray to be the same size as a peanut was on the verge of beating for the last time, I felt a sudden pressure around my mid section.

I was very close to blacking out and all I can remember is being thrown around like a ragdoll, my arms flailing like lamb shanks hanging in a butcher’s window.

I’m sure at one point they managed to knock over a teenager. Hopefully I knocked that stupid gold sticker off his peak that they all wear.

They’ll be leaving the price tag on next.

What was also nice about being rescued was that I think the guy fancied me.

I mean, when he was trying to Heimlich the Dorito out of there his hands were everywhere!

His hands were in my pockets and in my handbag.

Nowhere was off limits!

He even took my car keys – I’m assuming so that I didn’t injure myself on them.

What a gent!

Pretty soon, the offending heat-wave shot out of my oesophagus faster than money leaves my account on a night out and hit a toddler square in the eye.

I could hear the mother shouting about crisp burns but I was too busy swooning over my anonymous hero.

He had now fled across the car park, still clutching my car keys, purse and mobile phone.

“Are you okay?” an elderly gentleman scurried over.

“We need to call the police! He’s run off with your stuff!”

“He’s just shy! He doesn’t want to make a big deal. He’s just holding onto my things while I recover.”

I smiled, catching my breath.

Everyone looked confused.

Probably because, like me, they weren’t used to witnessing acts of random, human kindness.

I’m still here outside Morrisons if anyone wants me.

I’m sure he’ll bring my things back once it’s quiet.