A LOT is expected of you when you’re a dad. You’ve got to be a fixer, a rescuer, a hero, a cool head in a crisis. But then, all of a sudden, the tables turn.

My 21-year-old daughter – my “Baby Girl” – is now working with a dance company and has been living in London for six months.

I hate her being at the other end of the country, but it’s nice to meet up with her when I’m on occasional business trips to London. I was down there for a meeting last week and I had an hour to spare before catching my train home. We met for a coffee and then she walked me to King’s Cross station.

I’m like an alien in London. It’s all too big, too crowded and too fast for me, but she’s become a capital city veteran.

“Careful, Dad,” she said, holding my arm as the cars whizzed by from all directions at the traffic lights.

“Now you can cross.”

When we made it safely to Platform Four, she got permission to come through the barrier to wave me off.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” she asked.

“I’m not a child,” I laughed.

When the time came for the train to leave, she gave me a big cuddle before I climbed aboard. Then she stood on the other side of the glass window, mouthing “Text me when you get there”, as the train pulled away. She kept on waving until the very last second.

It was all very familiar – except it’s always been the other way round. It’s always been me telling her to be careful crossing the road, checking that she had not forgotten anything, and telling her to let me know when she arrives safely.

At what point did she become the parent and me the child? The thought had me both smiling and feeling a bit sad on the way back to Darlington. In a few weeks, she’ll be flying round the world on tour – to Israel, Austria, Italy and Portugal.

My own journey was uneventful as I watched a mum and dad on the seats opposite, desperately trying to entertain two little girls with colouring books, dolls and an assortment of sweets.

Then, as we were leaving York, my blood turned to ice. My car keys.

Where we’re my car keys? And my jacket? I remembered that I’d left it hanging up in the office where we’d had our meeting back in London.

The car keys were in the pocket.

I raced through my options in my brain. I couldn’t phone my wife and ask for help – she already thinks I’m a lost cause and this would only reinforce that view. Instead, I phoned my eldest son, Christopher. You know – The Big Friendly Giant. He’s 23 and has his own car.

“Chris, I need your help,” I gushed. “My train is due in Darlington in half an hour and I’ve left my car keys in London. Could you drive to the house, pick up my spare key and meet me?”

I think I detected a sigh, but he replied: “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll sort it.”

He was there, waiting for me when the train pulled in. He had a smile on his face and my key in his hand. A fixer, a rescuer, a hero, a cool head in a crisis.

My phoned pinged. A text from my Baby Girl: “Are you home safe?”

The things they say

MY old friend Noel – dad-ofthree and all-round good egg – emailed from Sussex with a lovely little story about his nephew Ethan, who attends a school for autistic children.

The school likes to give the children little tasks to boost their confidence and, one day last week, Ethan was sent to the school office to collect the register. Ethan, who is making great strides in life, trotted down the corridor to ask the secretary for the register. She was on the phone so the headteacher came out of the office to give him the register.

As he handed it over, and they both had a hand on the register, the head asked: “And what do you say, Ethan?”

He was hoping to elicit a please or thank you. Instead, Ethan piped up: “Let go!”

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