It was September and I was driving through Riding Mountain National Park

pondering on the one-act plays I had been adjudicating at the Drama Festival in Dauphin. Most of them were comedies, but one, the last, had been a thriller ending with the strangulation of the heroine by her seemingly mild and loving boyfriend, the murder weapon a nylon stocking. The play had been very well done with the audience caught up in the dramatic climax.

There were no other cars on the road, and I was enjoying the beauty of the scarlet and yellow leaves, driving slowly hoping to see a deer, a moose, even a bear, when, turning a corner I saw a car pulled up by the side of the road. As I drew closer, a man got out of the driver's seat and stood in the middle of the road with arms out-stretched. He was dressed in jeans, had a pony tale and earrings. What to do? I slowed down, then as he showed no sign of moving, I stopped. He must be in trouble (but flashing through my brain were all the warnings given on the media: "Do not stop on lonely roads. Always lock all car doors." Something I had failed to do. I rolled the window down a few inches and he came to my car. He seemed agitated.

"I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm having car trouble. I wonder if you could help me. This will seem rather a strange request, but have you by any chance a spare nylon stocking?" Could I be hearing correctly? "A nylon stocking?"

"Yes, you see my fan belt has broken and a nylon stocking is the best makeshift there is. I can drive on that to the nearest garage. I'm on my way to see my wife in hospital-our first child!"

Here was a new twist, the victim to produce the murder weapon? He looked harmless enough, but then don't they all? How was I to know whether or not he was high on drugs, a serial killer, a dangerous escapee from gaol?

He was standing at the side of the car near my window, and I suppose I could have driven on without injuring him, but somehow I could not do this. "The only nylon stockings I've got I am wearing," I said, "but I suppose I could take them off."

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble, I would be grateful," and he stepped away from the door.

Now, to remove a pair of panty-hose when sifting behind the steering wheel in a small car is not the easiest thing, even though I had on a skirt, not slacks. So I got out and made for the trees. It wasn't until I was struggling with my nylons that I remembered I had left my handbag in the car and keys in the ignition. 'Would the police ever believe my story if I were found alive?' The air felt very cold on my legs as I returned to my vehicle dangling the could-be 'murder weapon'.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am," he said as he took the stockings and started to pull one leg into a taut rope. Then he put his hand in his pocket and produced a $10 bill. "You must allow me to pay for a new pair," he said.

"No, no, you are welcome," I murmured. "Any time," and getting into my car I drove away.

Looking in my rear view mirror I saw him lifting the hood and fiddling about with the engine. I felt like the Good Samaritan with rather chilly legs.