We drive across town in the dark and sit in the taxi waiting, knuckles turning white on the steering wheel, as Spotted Youth of the Month attempts various wrestling holds with daughter A or B within the full-beam headlights.
And as we drive the cherubs back to the safety of the castle we hope like hell they've remembered everything we've told them and, more importantly, we swear one day we'll enforce the payback clause in the contract.
This gets actioned at a time for many of us when mortgages are under control and discretionary income means when we go out to visit friends we can now take some exotic stuff from the deli instead of making the good old-fashioned dip with onion soup and reduced cream.
Anyway.
Last week Mrs P and I were lucky enough to be invited to the home of our good friends for some socialising with their band of merry men and women.
Having once almost killed Brian and Elaine with some dangerously soaked fruit kebabs, I was not asked to bring food. A couple of bottles of red wine were assigned to my grasp, though, and off we went.
It was likely there would be some drinking involved so Boomerang Child offered to take us there and pick us up.
Finally. After all these years. I would be picked up in the wee small hours without a care in the world. Payback would be oh, so very sweet. I would relish it. Perhaps even write a column about it.
As expected with the reigning champions of entertaining, the night was superb.
The wine flowed. Nick and Wayne explained why I shouldn't drink the dregs; Kevin and Nigel thumbed their nose at the digital world with a fine collection of vinyl - remember that? - Jane played the air piano and Alison, Kim and Taryn provided backing vocals to put The Supremes to shame.
And through it all I carried the wonderful, smiley glow of contentment (though that may have been Kev's lemonicello) knowing that Dad's Taxi was well and truly not in service.
Sadly, the festivities had to come to an end and I arranged for the Boomerang Child to come over and pick us up.
Now, I thought, maybe there'll be some understanding of the life of a parent. A late night callout. Bet she's tired. She's probably been asleep. I might have even woken her up. Hahaha (That's actually supposed to be an evil laugh but I'm not sure how to spell it).
Dutifully she arrived, and as the full beam washed across us as we stood waiting and for a moment, I contemplated trying out some wrestling moves on Mrs P.
The thought of trying to make my muscles and ligaments work perfectly in tandem at such a late hour saved her.
In the car, waves of tiredness began to overtake me as I settled into the back seat on the beginning of the journey to my Sealey Posturepedic mattress.
Still, I was content in knowing Boomerang Child now knew what it was like to get that late, late callout.
I should have just concentrated on having a good night rather than getting all smug over that payback clause in my Dad's Taxi contract.
Especially when I spotted the time on the dashboard clock.
Talk about feeling old and like a silly old sod. It was 11.30pm.
*Kevin Page has been a journalist for 34 years. He hasn't made enough money to retire after writing about serious topics for years so he's giving humour a shot instead.
