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I remember the day I discovered my wife was fearless.

It must have been 2002. We were driving along Greenford Avenue in Hanwell. All of a sudden, she yells, “Stop the car.”

Before I’ve really clocked what’s happening, she’s jumped out, grabbed hold of a young Somali lad running towards us and pulled him into a corner shop.

I’m still parking my car when I see the gang in pursuit. Coming to a standstill, they wait outside for him to reemerge, but my wife insists on staying with him until they move on.

Finally, when the coast is clear, she hurries him to our car, pushes him into the back seat, then cries, “Drive! Go. Drive, drive, drive!”

And so I drive like crazy, with that panting boy in the back, all the way to his home — a tower block in Northolt, four miles away.

I wonder if that young boy — he must be in his mid-thirties now — ever thinks of the guardian angel who came to his rescue that night. What impact did it have on his life, if any?

And what about his assailants? Do they ever recount this tale to their own kids? About the night they were out to give a rival a kicking, when out of nowhere this nun appeared and stopped them in their tracks.

Of course, we might say those were tamer times. Yes, that lad would probably have been left battered and bruised as a result of that encounter. But at least young men were not carrying machetes and zombie blades back then.

But who’s to say what will cause you to intervene at any given moment? Had there been time to contemplate her actions, would my wife seriously have chosen to put herself in harm’s way like that?

Sometimes you only think of the potential consequences after the event.