1.25AM AND ONLY ONE TOOTHBRUSH

Eldest foster child uses up the whole packet of bacon and puts a pyramid of sarnies (white bread, of course) on the kitchen table.

They pile in.

I ask their names.

Why oh why do chaotic parents give their children glitzy handles?

Emmanuel. Lotus. Ferdinand.

As though kids are just a bit of bling.

Blue Sky's 24-hour social worker arrives. She ducks into the living room to liaise with the police officers, who have been brilliant.

I ask the kids;

"Did they turn on their siren?"

I'm trying for a bit of light-hearted here. No dice. They shake their heads dismissively.

My eldest foster child, Ben by the way, articulates their thinking;

"Nah, they only turn on the siren if it's an emergency."

Ben is on their wavelength. His whole demeanour matches the new arrivals. He is world-weary, dismissive, resigned to life's bleak trials and tribulations. They have taken an instant warming to him. The  eldest of the three, Emmanuel, mutters;

"Or if they're late for their tea."

That gets a grunted gurgle of approval from the other two, and Ben rewards Emmanuel with a grudging guffaw.

This is going brilliantly. I take a chance and say;

"If you guys will excuse me I'll just go and have a word with the grown-ups."

Complete lie. I'm going out in order to help Ben break the ice with the new arrivals. My thinking is that if they can see that being in care can be cool, which is how Ben is positioning himself, they'll bed in better.

The police fill me in. They'd been called by neighbours to a domestic. When they arrived it was a drink and drugs den, four adults. Actual bodily harm involving a knife. Resisting arrest. A second police car attended, always a sign things are not going well. Then an ambulance. An officer accompanied paramedics and one of the accused to Accident and Emergency.

Flippin' heck! Here's me trying to make light banter!

Poor little mites.

I sneak up to the kitchen door to eavesdrop on the conversation. Ben is holding court:

"Did they take yer fingerprints?" he asks. They say "Nah." Ben says;

"My dad's finger was black wiv the ink for a week. It don't wash off.  Like they want you to stand out as having been banged up."

In I go, the bristling Mrs Sensible;

"Now, it's very late and although no-ones going to school tomorrow we're going to get ready for bed. We can catch up with each other tomorrow over breakfast."

I explained the sleeping arrangements and fetched spare pyjamas (we never throw children's clothes out, you simply never know what's round the corner).

I led them upstairs and showed them the bathroom and how the toilet worked in case they needed it in the night. 

I cursed to myself that I only had one spare toothbrush, and put them to bed, reminding them that if anyone felt scared in the night they could knock on my bedroom door.

Then I crept downstairs, our social worker had left. Ben was in the kitchen luxuriating; the new King of the World.

"They're alright," he said "That Emmanuel, he got a Man U shirt on didn't he, so I took the piss, he loved it."

Then he shook his head and murmured something like;

"Kids..."

We settled Ben in the living room, he opted for the sofa rather than the sofa bed, after all he's a man now.

Husband and I crept up to bed, but I knew it'd be a while before I nodded off, if I managed to at all. So much to process.

Apparently the family was known to the police and social services and the children had been considered for care in the past. There were files and I'd be getting an email in the morning.

Nothing prepares you for sitting and reading what some children have been through...

To be continued...