DAD’S taxi has been used for all kinds of missions over the years.

From party pick-ups at ridiculous o’clock in the morning, to moving all kinds of paraphernalia to university halls of residence, or driving drum kits to music festivals, I’ve seen it all with FAST Cabs (Father’s a Soft Touch).

But nothing can compare to being given the terrifying responsibility of transporting a wedding cake for my daughter Hannah.

She’d been tasked by one of her oldest friends, Jade, with making the cake for her wedding to a very nice young man called Tom.

The baking had been done in London the day before, and Hannah had managed to carry it by train all the way to Worcestershire – no mean feat because we’re talking about a four-tiered cake, comprising lemon sponge, with lemon curd and buttercream, and traditional sponge with buttercream and strawberry jam.

Oh, and to top it all, Hannah had also ingeniously made little models of Tom sweeping Jade off her feet.

FAST Cabs was duly booked to be at Hannah’s accommodation at precisely 8am. The job was to take the cake, plus all the trimmings, for intricate assembly at the wedding venue a few miles away.

Naturally, my wife came along to supervise and, quite frankly, I might as well have been carrying a bomb, such was the level on tension inside my Dacia Duster. Hannah, weighed down by the sheer responsibility of it all, was a ball of stress that was quickly transferred to me and her mum.

My blood pressure soared when I was given strict instructions before we’d even set off: “Don’t brake sharply. Watch out for speed humps. And go slowly round the corners.”

We made it to the wedding venue, but the pressure rose as the cake construction began. It was a warm room, so the tiers were sliding on the buttercream, and the whole structure looked vulnerable.

You know those agonising moments on The Great British Bake-Off when a contestant’s showstopper looks about to collapse? Well, multiply that by ten.

You could hear a pin drop as, one by one, the four tiers were added by Hannah’s trembling hands, aided by the calming influence of boyfriend Jamie, while my wife kept a close eye from every angle and reassured her that it would all be alright.

I just stood there, transfixed, my heart beating fast, and ready to dive, like a cricketer in the slips, in case the tiers toppled.

“It doesn’t help if you’re watching,” said my wife, as the top tier wobbled.

I immediately turned away, looking anywhere but at the cake. I may even have stopped breathing in case I created a waft of air that led to slippage.

Then came the most nerve-racking test of all. It was announced that the cake would have to be lifted so the tablecloth could be put on the table.

Now, had it had been under my supervision, the tablecloth would have been laid before the cake was put together. But it wasn’t.

It was, therefore, decreed that Jamie, my wife and daughter would lift the cake, while I held the heavy wooden cake-stand, so a member of staff could swiftly apply the tablecloth.

It’s the most nervous I’ve been since the birth of my children. The cake wavered slightly as it was lifted, and I was told to HURRY UP! with the cake-stand, as the tablecloth was slid underneath. The cake was rested back on the stand and the sighs of relief could be heard for miles as the models were finally put in place.

It was a beautiful wedding. The bride was stunning, the groom very handsome, the cake was a big hit with the happy couple, and I’m proud of the crucial role I played in making sure it didn’t all end in tiers.