It was the scenario from a thousand Hollywood westerns where two gunslingers, their fingers twitching above low-slung holsters, menacingly head for a showdown on the dusty street of a no-count prairie town.

Yet the stars' were not gunfighters, but a large and highly polished silver Toyota Land Cruiser Amazon 4x4 and a faded red - and battered - K-registered Vauxhall Nova, on a straight but narrow road, only a lasso-twirl from Merton and the run of an Injun's arrow from the roaring M40.

They bore down at a steady 30mph, each hugging the crown of the road, neither willing to yield a foot, something that would have allowed both to pass with ease.

The Toyota flashed its dazzling battery of lights; the Nova did not respond but held firm.

No stirring music heightened the tension. Only a Radio Five phone-in on the Blair/Brown soap opera broke the silence. I feared the worst.

Then, with little more than the length of a Dodge City bar between them, the 4x4 gave way. It pulled sharply on to the uneven verge with a bump that tested its mighty suspension; the hedgerow scraped its paintwork and gleaming wheel trims gathering previously undreamed of quantities of dirt and vegetation.

The Nova passed serenely by, its driver glancing neither to the left nor to the right, so missing the gestures of the occupant of the 4x4, a tall, elegant moustachioed man of late middle age.

The Nova driver? A small, white-haired lady, probably nearer 80 than 70.

I stopped to check the 4x4 driver's condition. He was fine, apart from dented pride and scratched paintwork.

While outwardly regretting this lapse in road courtesy, as one who has had to head for the scenery all too often to avoid these Chelsea tractors', I had a perverse feeling of satisfaction.

The world has many wonderful people - I believe I've mentioned this before.

Take, for example, two teenage girls who spent the first day of the Blenheim International Horse Trials persuading punters to part with spare cash for Helen House and Douglas House, when the two could have been sitting in the sun, eyeing the handsome male riders.

Their efforts put more than £226 into the bucket they brandished.

The following evening, a woman at an auction of promises held at The Railway public house in Wheatley, again in aid of the two hospices, bought two children's cycles for £50 each and promptly handed them over to be used by youngsters staying at Helen House.

Errant apostrophes and poor spelling jar my sensitivity. So after seeing one Cowley Road shop offering "tomato's, cabbage's and pea's", and a caf enticing customers with "free internet conections" sic, I felt compelled to correct the talented and colourful artist's wording on a wallboard outside a nearby pub.

"Where even dispair sic dies," it read.

I pointed out the error, at the same time apologising for my intervention.

"No worries!" he said cheerfully.

But I have. In fact, I despair. Will correct spelling ever again be a must?