FAST CABS have been in business for the best part of two decades – and it’s been a long, expensive journey.

The name of my taxi service stands for “Father’s A Soft Touch”

and I use the phrase “in business”

loosely because I’ve never actually been paid a penny.

All four of the children have been regular “customers” over the years but my only daughter has probably clocked up more free rides than anyone.

When she was little, it was never-ending trips to school, Rainbows, Brownies, and dance classes.

The dance classes have continued but school, Rainbows and Brownies have been replaced by college, work, the shops and nightclubs.

But, just before Christmas, something quite momentous happened.

She passed her driving test.

The news came in a one-word text while I was at work – PASSED! – and I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I was happy for her because I knew how excited she’d be at having her freedom. I should have been happy for me because the potential for lifts home from the pub is not to be underestimated.

And yet I couldn’t help feeling a bit sad.

“Hey, Dad, I can drive myself to work tonight,” she said after we’d nearly had to remortgage the house to insure her to drive Mum’s car.

And that was it. My baby girl had casually announced that she was independently mobile and didn’t need FAST CABS anymore.

I’ve lost count of the times I’ve moaned about having to get up from watching the telly, or climb out of my bed at some unearthly hour, to give her a lift.

But I suddenly felt as flat as a punctured tyre, knowing that a big part of my life had raced by in a blur, and a worrying new chapter was about to begin.

That night, she got ready to go to work as a waitress at a local hotel and we waved her off at the door as she climbed into the car on her own for the first time.

“Drive carefully. Don’t go too fast and remember the roads might be slippy,” I told her.

She began to pull out of the drive… “Lights, Hannah,” said my wife, quietly. “Lights, Hannah,” she said more loudly. “LIGHTS, HANNAA- AH!” she shouted.

The car was about to turn out of our close and she still hadn’t put her headlights on.

“Run!” ordered my wife. “Run after her!”

I’m a 48-year-old dad. I’m not Usain Bolt. But I ran, gasping: “Lights, Hannah, lights, lights.”

Luckily, our road is bendy so I managed to catch her at a T-junction.

“What?” she snapped, glaring, impatiently, at me through the window.

“Lights. Lights,” I wheezed.

“All right, Dad, all right. Calm down,” she replied, with a roll of her eyes.

The new chapter hadn’t got off to the best of starts and the next time she went out in the car, I couldn’t help lecturing her. “Don’t forget your lights. Don’t forget to indicate. Don’t forget your seat-belt. Don’t forget your mirror. Don’t forget your handbrake.”

“You’re going to turn her into a nervous wreck,” complained my wife.

“You can’t be too careful,” I insisted, knowingly.

An hour or so later, after I’d popped to the shop, a crunch outside made us jump. My car had rolled down the icy drive and hit a wall at the front of the house.

“What was that you were saying about the handbrake?” asked my wife, shutting the door as I went to inspect the damage.

RINGING A BELL

THE last Dad At Large column, about finding my lost wedding ring in the coal bunker, rang a bell with Judith Mashiter.

She emailed with a strange request: “Are you able to offer ringfinding services?”

Judith went on to explain that her husband had lost his wedding ring on December 22. They’d assumed it had dropped off while he was clearing snow but my experience with the coal had opened up a whole new possibility because he’d also been gathering winter fuel.

“Are you able to perfect your technique in our coal hole?” enquired Judith. “It’s an upmarket, modern stone-built bunker with a sizeable aperture through which to enter.”

I was half-tempted to go round and give them a hand – but I didn’t like the suggestion that I need a sizeable aperture.

THE THINGS THEY SAY

AT a meeting of the Hartlepool Widows’ Friendship Group last week, Doreen Williams remembered making a phone call, which was answered by her four-year-old grand-daughter Emma.

“What are you doing, pet?” asked Doreen.

“I’m talking to you, Nanna,” came the reply.