Problem with the car? Confusion over the house insurance? Need to put a shelf up? Even how do you blanch broccoli? I’ll call my dad.

He’ll always have an answer, or at least know where to find one. (Anything involving gadgets, for instance, gets outsourced to his mate John, who lives nearby in a house full of self-soldered circuit boards and half-built computers.)

But it worries me. I’ll be 40 in a few years: shouldn’t I already know how to tile a bathroom wall?

Where does Dad get all this knowledge from? Is it instinct? Was he born knowing how to replace a fanbelt? Did he rely on his father for all these life skills? Were they passed down like an Olympic torch, practicality burning down the generations?

Trouble is, I think I’m in danger of dropping it. In years to come, when my kids phone me up to ask how to reignite their boiler, I’ll have to put them on to Granddad.

I know it’s not just me – my brother and sister are the same. Luckily, despite being 70 and with one false hip, my dad is still the most energetic, indefatigable man you’re ever likely to meet.

Thank goodness for that. You’ve got years of cutting down trees and fixing curtain rails ahead of you, Dad. No peaceful retirement for you, I’m afraid. We’d be neck-deep in chaos without you.