There are occasional reminders that we are no longer in the fast lane. Our eldest informed me that her husband, Marc, had a somewhat unusual experience when popping down to the supermarket the other day.

They live on the Northamptonshire-Oxfordshire borders, having moved up there to escape the hustle and bustle of life in Croxley Green and Watford.

I can testify: they have pubs liked we used to have in SW Herts, and the Hook Norton beer is like nectar.

They managed to secure what is pretty well the last house in a nice, largely stone-built village, in an area resonant of the Cotswolds, but they have suffered some anxiety for the hustle and bustle of the world is going to come almost to their doorstep in the shape of HS2, for the route passes well within 100 yards of their front door.

It seems you cannot escape: and if you try, they will hunt you down; but such thoughts were doubtless not on Marc’s mind as he headed for the supermarket, going through a neighbouring village.

He looked out the window, and then did a double take. There on the other side of the hedge, in a ploughed field, was a smoking car lying on its side. He looked again, for cars appeared to be heading in both directions, without anyone slowing or seeming concerned.

Marc braked, reversed up and cars overtook him, motorists sounding their horns. He parked his car on the edge of the garage forecourt, climbed into the field and ran like the proverbial substance off a shovel for the car, which was lying on the driver’s side.

He could see, as he approached, someone was attempting to open the passenger door without success.

There was also a lot of screaming.

“As I got to the car I heard this hissing sound. I managed to force the door open. I thought it was going to go up in flames any second, but I managed to pull this hysterical woman from the car. She was hysterical and inconsolable.

"I took her in my arms to a point of safety, asked her if there was anyone else in the car, but she seemed incapable of communicating.

“I ran back to the car, put my boot into the windscreen, pulled it open and checked inside the car. That was my worst moment because I am not keen on blood and I thought I might find children in the back, but I was able to establish there was no one else in the car.”

Marc then moved away, until he noticed the hissing was coming from the tyre and the radiator was causing it to appear as if the car was enveloped in smoke.

By the time he got back to the girl, whose face was covered in hair when he had held her in his arms and taken her to safety, she was being attended to, and an ambulance had been called.

“I did not realise she was about 20. She was incapable of conversation: just hysterical,” he told me.

They waited round for the ambulance and eventually, seeing she was being looked after and there was nothing more to be done, Marc gave the garage-man his business card telling them if there was anything the police or anyone needed, they could get in touch.

“Life has to go on, so I headed on for the supermarket,” he said.

To be honest, nothing as exciting as that has happened to me, so I asked Marc if he minded if I put the story in my column on the internet, on a newspaper website miles from his home.

After some thought overnight, he agreed, “Pity it is not local, because then people might read it and not have the need to ask me why I wear red underpants over the jeans,” he chuckled.

Some days after the incident, the new Superman passed the garage, popped in and asked if all went well.

“Yes she came in here yesterday to thank us. I told her the person to thank was you, not us, and explained you were the one who dragged her out. We gave her your card.”

So it all worked out well: the car has been removed and presumably Marc is placing a bulk order for red underpants.

As yet, almost three weeks after the incident, they have not heard from the girl, but Marc dismissed the saga in modest tones. “Just an everyday story of country-folk. Cue the music."