You would have thought that the next call I had to make was to the State Emergency Service to get all their volunteers to re-trace Stella’s steps, to beat the bush because my 16-year-old’s life stopped the moment she realised she had lost her mobile phone.

Foolish me, how was I to know she was addicted to it.

She frantically searched every bag, every room, every corner of the house, she even made me ring the BP at Forest Glen where we had stopped to get some drinks, but all to no avail.

Her personality changed almost immediately; she was jumpy and unnerving, furtively glancing from side to side as if she had just caught a glimpse of her phone’s colour.

It nearly killed her to use the house phone. In fact, I think she had forgotten how.

She couldn’t message anyone, she was cut off from her world, as it were.

She pleaded: “It’s my birthday, you could buy me another one? Couldn’t you, Dad?”

I was caring and sympathetic and responded with “nah”.

“But what will I do?” she continued.

“You’ll just have to find it,” I urged, “or perhaps you could go back to writing letters,” I said with a smirk.

Disaster was averted, however, when a friend rang to inform Stella that she’d left her mobile phone on the bag rack at school.

Just so as other parents can experience the thrill that I have over these last couple of days, it might just be worth hiding your teenage daughter’s mobile phone somewhere for an hour or two, then just sit back and watch the pandemonium.

My act of chivalry

Well … nearly.

Because it was pouring rain, I decided to give my children a treat by taking them to lunch at the Chopping Block in Buderim.

We parked around the back and had all sorts of trouble getting through the interestingly designed door into the restaurant.

We eventually did and I sat there with Stella, Max, Jackson and Poppy.

I like to set an example when it comes to eating out with my children. I generally hiss under my breath towards them, “I want restaurant behaviour!”

So when an elderly lady walked past our table to go out the door, I leapt to my feet to open it for her.

“Oh,” she said, “Are the bathrooms over the back of the carpark? I don’t think I’ll bother going, I’ll get too wet,” she said.

That’s when jovial Jamie came to the fore with yet another side-splitting quip: “If you don’t go, you will regret it, you know you will”, and then I whispered to her, “you’ll start fidgeting”.

“All right then,” she said putting up her umbrella. I held her arm and helped her down the stairs into the teaming rain.

“You’ll be right, I called after her, I’ll watch for you coming back.”

I shut the door and returned to my seat just as the waiter placed a steaming hot bowl of sweet potato soup in front of me.

I began asking the children what they would like, as this was my entree.

Mid-conversation, I swear I heard way of in the distance, “excuse me I’m back”, but I paid no attention, I was more interested in making sure the other patrons were impressed with the Dunn children’s behaviour.

As I asked Poppy, “Do you just want a bowl of chips”, there was a tapping sound coming from somewhere, accompanied by a faint call of “Young man!”

“What are you having Max”? I continued oblivious to everything else around me until Stella barked across the table: “Dad! You’ve left that lady out in the rain!”

Well, you have never seen a man rise from the table so quickly.

The chair screeched, I drew back a curtain that was holding the door and quickly opened it to reveal a waterlogged octogenarian, whose pursed yet down-turned lips hardly moved when she said very firmly, “Why… thank you!”

Wait for it

How long do you think it’s going to take Peter Beattie to say these words? “Look how much rain they’ve had up there, I told you it’s a good place for a dam!”