I hadn't seen this wonderful thread before, but I'd like to add the story of a lovely lorry driver, and confess my shame at my initial thoughts about him.
Many years ago when I was in my early 20s, back when dinosaurs roamed the earth, I had my first car. Like many cars of that ilk, it more or less held together with a bit of tlc, and usually got me where I needed to go. The story happens on a wet, cold February night in Scotland. It was about 10pm and I was driving home after visiting a friend. The car decided it didn't like cold, wet February nights and decided to go on strike. I managed to coast into a lay-by that actually had a phone box in it. (This was before mobile phones - remember the dinosaurs?) I phoned my poor, long-suffering Dad and got back into the car to wait for him. I knew it would be about an hour before he could get there. After about 20 minutes a lorry pulled in behind me. The driver got out and came and tapped on my window. I opened it a crack and he asked if I needed any help. I said I was fine and my Dad would be here in a minute or two, and closed the window. He tapped on it again and asked if I was cold. He had some hot soup in his cab. Yes, I was freezing, but there was no way I was getting out of the car or even opening the window any more than that tiny crack. I was beginning to freak by then, but tried to stay calm. I told him that I was perfectly OK and repeated that my Dad was on his way and would be there in a couple of minutes. The driver walked back to his cab and I watched him get in, then climb down again, bend down behind my car, get back into the cab and drive off. Once he was out of sight I got out to see what on earth he had done. On the kerb, behind my car was his thermos flask of soup and a packet of biscuits.