“Mr Eastley,” said the nurse gravely. “You may have to deliver the baby on your own. The midwife is stranded.”

They were words my father had been dreading but their enormity still chilled him to the bone. It was nearly midnight and Britain was paralysed by a freak April blizzard.

My father had speedily crunched through the snow to the only neighbour who owned a phone on the newly-built estate to call the maternity hospital and tell them I was on my way.

After the nurse’s stark words, he raced back, gulped down a glass of water and peered out into the woodland behind our house cursing his luck. It was the most frightening episode of his 30-year-old life.

These were the days when most fathers had little or no involvement in the actual birth of their children. A popular trope of the time was of expectant dads hovering nervously outside delivery rooms, puffing on cigarettes, waiting for news.

My dad, however, was on his own. The birth when it happened was, by all accounts, comically rapid. Dad needed all his skills as a first-rate scrum half grabbing a slippery rugby ball on a wet day to grab the little scrap of humanity slithering into the world.

Baby born, my dad sprinted back to the neighbour’s house and breathlessly phoned the hospital. The same nurse expressed mild impatience believing my dad to be panicking unnecessarily:

“Mr Eastley,” she said with a degree of irritation. “I can assure you the midwife is on her way and will be with you soon.”

“Well, she better hurry,” said dad. “Because I’ve just delivered him.”

There was a pause as the nurse processed dad’s words: “I’m sorry. You’ve just……delivered him?”

“Yes,” said dad. “Just now.”

“Do not touch the cord Mr Eastley. Do you hear me? Do not touch the cord.” Dad decided not to touch the cord.

Eventually the midwife arrived and took charge but what a hero my dad was that night. The next day he was the toast of the area as word spread.

The episode made a few lines in the local paper so perhaps I was always destined to be a journalist and writer.

Every so often I’ll say to dad: “Oh come on, tell me the story just one more time. I haven’t heard it for a couple of months.”

He’ll sigh, but he always does.