Daddy Cool: "Call me, urgent," read the text

ADMITTEDLY, it wasn't a contract drawn up by lawyers or written in blood. But, even given my naivety when it comes to all daughterly matters, I thought it might hold water. How wrong could I be?

The document in question arrived 24 hours before Daughter No 1 departed on her well-earned holiday to the souks and riads of mysterious Marrakech and three days before Father's Day. Opening the envelope on a card emblazoned with "Daddy Cool", I examined the scrawl that read: "To my dearest father. With all my heart I give you the greatest gift of all." At this point my excitement levels were escalating off the chart. Where would she get the money for a trip to the World Cup final? Or even Wimbledon (Andy Murray hadn't been knocked out then)?

Reading on, I realised what she meant. "Me away for ten whole days!" it said. "Love you lots, Katrina."

Given our fractious relationship in the run-up to this holiday – after a year of her living back at home we have had one or two little difficulties – this actually wasn't the naff Father's Day present it might appear.

Next day, off she went to Morocco with warnings from me about the over-friendly nature of the average North African male and her travellers' cheques stuffed in her money belt by her mum who didn't want her carrying large sums of cash. And so I settled back for ten whole days of a life reclaimed from taxi duties, driving lessons, moans about money, fighting with her sister over clothes, fighting with her mother over (not doing any) household chores.

Oh, what a dummy. The first message arrived just four days later. "Call me, urgent," read the text. On the phone, she was a little tearful but apparently unharmed, except financially. "They won't take my travellers' cheques," she wailed. "Use your credit card," I yelled back. "But I've no money in my account, I used it to buy travellers' cheques." I knew the game was up. "How much?" "300." "I'll transfer it now." Nothing more was heard for four days. Then: "Call me, urgent." "How much?" "50." A day later, the phone beeped again. This time, better news. "My phone attacked by sand and no use. On someone else's. Call when I get home for lift from airport." Whoa! Thirty-six hours to relax before taxi duties resumed.

She pitched up off the plane, bronzed, hennaed, full of travelling tales . I am now going to have to develop the negotiating skills of the wiliest Berber tribesman if I'm going to get my money back.