THIS may be the silliest true story you hear about my life, but I swear I haven’t made it up.

I’m almost reluctant to share it with you because you won’t believe me.

But as it’s a story about goodness, decency and ripped trousers, I simply cannot resist.

Our papers are often filled with tales of doom and gloom, so it’s nice to report the happy stories of human kindness.

I receive many letters from readers thanking strangers for spontaneous acts of chivalry.

Not everyone is a thief and a blaggard and I’m amazed at the number of times people write telling me how a Good Samaritan came to their rescue.

Only this week, a woman from Stokenchurch wrote asking me to thank the mystery couple who helped her after she fell on Saturday.

So it’s incumbent upon me to tell my own heart-warming tale of how two gallant knights saved me last Saturday. But, as with all of my personal stories, there’s an element of bizarre high comedy.

It actually all began in the summer when I took my son and his friends to The Rye in High Wycombe to play football.

Disaster struck as one of the lads booted my son’s favourite ball onto the roof of the toilets. It was too high to climb and, even though the ball rolled to the edge, there seemed no way to get it.

I had a brainwave and wandered over to the open air pool where I enlisted the services of an attendant, convincing her to bring out a swimming pool pole.

I then attempted to use this pole to push the ball off the roof, and was egged on by a watching crowd of kids. But it didn’t work – the pole kept going over the ball.

I was just about to give up when a large man walking past lifted his son up. The boy clambered up and flicked the ball back into the park, much to the delight of everyone.

And I thought that was that until Saturday when lightning struck again. Same spot, probably the same ball and this time it was my son who did it during a kick-about with a friend.

His expensive orange football was skied onto the roof again... but this time there seemed no answer.

The pool was shut, the tall Good Samaritan was nowhere to be seen, and I only had two small boys to help me.

But I had another brainwave. We rushed back home together and stuffed a step-ladder into my car, alongside a giant telescopic garden tool I use for cutting high branches.

Now before anyone worries unduly, I had been on a health and safety course several weeks earlier so I was careful. Back at The Rye, I ensured the stepladder was on solid ground and got my son to hold it firmly while I climbed up holding the telescopic tool.

My son’s friend stood back in the park and directed my aim because the ball was obscured from view.

But, just like last time, it didn’t work. I was unable to angle the pole down sufficiently and it kept straying into empty air just inches over the ball.

I was in despair and about to give up when a couple of strapping young men walked by. I asked the biggest if he could give me a hand up.

But he must have looked at my grey hair and thought I’d probably die with the exertion, so he gamely lifted his mate up who nimbly reached up and knocked the ball back into play.

Oh how we cheered, but then disaster struck again.

There was a ripping sound and to our horror... we saw a huge tear in the thigh of the jeans belonging to the lad who reached for the ball.

His trousers had come apart as he stretched.

But in the nature of every Good Samaritan he just laughed and modestly walked away in his torn trousers as I expressed my embarrassment and eternal gratitude.

So here’s a public thank you to the mystery saviour in my true-life ripping yarn.

And I suppose the moral of the story is... to be a Good Samaritan, you need to have good genes.