FATHERHOOD comes with the requirement to be skilled at many jobs: nurse-maid, teacher, cleaner, sports coach, relationship counsellor, and taxi driver to name but a few.

I can now add “removal man” to the list after spending the whole of Saturday moving our eldest, The Big Friendly Giant (BFG), into his new flat on the other side of town.

I borrowed a large van and started straight after breakfast: shifting his bed, settee, washing machine, fridge, wardrobe, telly, microwave and anything else you can think of.

All of it had spent the past few weeks piled up in our lounge and hall as he prepared for the big move into independence.

He’d had the choice of two flats – one on the first floor and one on the top floor. Naturally, he chose the top floor because it has a nicer view.

That’s fine in theory – I’m all in favour of a pleasant view – but it takes no account of the extra effort required to lump all his stuff up the stairs.

The apartment block has a lift, which is handy for people and smaller items, but no good for things like double beds, wardrobes and settees, all of which were a nightmare.

It was 7pm on Saturday by the time we got to the settee –my settee.

We’d left it until last on the grounds that it was the heaviest thing to move. It’s the settee I like to sit on but my wife decided the BFG could have it because we’ve got two other settees. Our remaining settees are more battered but she thought he should have the good one.

Pickfords would have had a team of four at each corner and taken a tea-break halfway up the stairs. In our case, there was just me and the BFG and he hadn’t thought to buy any tea-bags. If I’d known, I’d have joined the removal men’s union.

By the time we’d manoeuvred the settee up two flights of stairs and through various doors, I was lathered in sweat. I’d also pulled something in my neck which means I’ve had to hold my head slightly to one side all week.

“Hey, that wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,” said the BFG, flopping into my settee once it was nicely in position in his lounge.

I wasn’t able to reply because I was still catching my breath. Suffice to say I didn’t agree – it was every bit as bad as I thought it was going to be.

That said, it was all worth it. I don’t mean this uncharitably but I see it very much as a case of one down, three to go. Our eldest has officially flown the nest and now has his own place to make his home.

And what’s more, we can start to live again without being surrounded by purchases from Argos and Ikea.

Once my breath had returned, I shook the BFG’s hand and wished him luck.

“Thanks for everything, dad,” he said, and I know he meant it sincerely.

He got up from my settee and came downstairs to wave me off as I walked towards the empty van.

“Hey, dad,” he shouted after me, “do you think you could come and pick me up for Sunday lunch tomorrow?”

THE THINGS THEY SAY

MY friend Mark kindly passed on details of a conversation he’d had with daughter Rachel. It went like this: “Hey, dad, there’s a teacher at college and my friends think he looks just like you.”

“Oh,” replied Mark. “What does he look like?”

“Really weird,” came the reply.