I was edgy when I got up and the feeling stayed with me most of the day. It was Thursday and the next day we’d be meeting up with the judge to hear his opinion in my case, or rather that of custody of Mima.

“Why don’t you go for a ride on your bike?” suggested Simon, “You could take one of the terrible twins with you on the trailer.”

“No, the last thing I need is to have an accident with one of them and for it to come out in court; besides it’s very cold out there. Can you watch them for half an hour?”

“They’re playing quite nicely, I’ll give them a biccie if they get peckish.”

“No, give them an apple between them, but take the core out.”

“Yes, boss. What’re you doing?”

“I’m going out in the garage.”

“To fiddle with your bikes?”

“No. See you later.” I dashed upstairs and changed into trackie bottoms and a sports bra with an old tee shirt over the top. Then I dashed out to the larger of the three garages. We never put the cars away, because there wasn’t any room. One of the garages was full of bikes, the other assorted junk of Tom’s and the third had some junk but also Simon’s mini gym and Stella’s kick bag–a punch bag which she used for practicing her kick boxing, and upon which she had also taught me.

I did a couple of minutes stretching and bending, warming up different muscle groups, then used some of Si’s equipment, the rowing machine and the weights. When I felt exhausted, I drank a little water and set to with the kick bag.

I felt like pretending it was Social Services, but that was childish, so I just labelled it–Obstacles–and kicked at it until my legs were like jelly, and I was sweating like a sauna user.

I walked back on wobbly legs and went up to shower, too tired to feel anything but aching muscles. After, I dried my hair and put on a small amount of makeup, although very casually dressed in jeans and jumper, I felt much better.

I went down and the girls came and hugged my legs and told me they loved me. “I love you, both, too. After lunch, we can make some jelly.” They both rushed off to tell Simon with great excitement. That he was in the same room and had heard me telling them, didn’t seem to matter.

In the kitchen I turned out the loaf, the machine had baked for us. Although our extra mouths were small ones, we were getting through an extra loaf a week, I baked a loaf nearly every day, and bought the flour and yeast in relatively large quantities compared to my first sojourn into the area.

Lunch was soup, I’d become quite an expert in turning out tasty pans of all sorts of soup. Sometimes it was from a book, other times I just experimented, usually with some left over stock and whatever vegetables I had available, thickening it with lentils, split peas or pasta, occasionally with potato.

Today, it contained onion, broccoli, celeriac and lentils in a ham stock. In an hour it had cooked and I put it through the blender. Mima sometimes grumbled at bits floating in hers–the odd dark lentil, or bit of onion which had a darker colour in it.

It tasted okay, with garlic and pepper added and a little salt, I don’t use much which annoys Tom, or used to. He used to add loads to everything–a very Scottish habit, although I weaned him off much of it. He’d have a little tonight as a first course of his dinner–sounds very grand doesn’t it.

Lunch was served and after clearing up, the jellification started. Even though the girls had washed their hands before lunch, if we were preparing food of any sort, I made them wash their puddies again. It was now sort of ritual, so they hardly needed asking, and they shared the sink as I put a blob of liquid hand soap on each of their hands. Once they’d dried said paws, I’d wash mine and the task would begin.

Jelly is essentially gelatine and sugar with some sort of fruit flavour thrown in with the appropriate colouring. It dissolves in hot water and when allowed to cool it sets in a couple of hours. Obviously, I had to do the hot water bit, but they each had a go at stirring the slowly dissolving lump of red. They chose strawberry flavour.

After this it was left to cool in a glass bowl. However, while it was cooling, I had them carefully remove the stalks from a dozen or more strawberries, which we then chopped into quarters. I let them do a bit hoping there wouldn’t be too many small fingers floating in the red goo, especially as oxidising blood goes brown and would discolour the jelly and spoil the effect.

By the time I’d sewn fingers back on, hopefully to the matching hand, the jelly was beginning to thicken and set. We then dropped in the fruit pieces with such exactitude it was breath-taking. Had I been making it on my own, I’d just have dumped the lot off the cutting board: today; we were dropping each piece individually with great concentration–tongues were waggling around the edges of their mouths. Why we do this? I have no idea, but I do it when I’m applying eye makeup, or at least hold my mouth open–does it aid concentration or act as a comfort? God knows.

Once this placing of the fruit had happened, we proceeded with great ritual to the fridge and I placed the bowl inside to cool and set. They kept coming to me all afternoon to ask if it was ready yet. The fridge door would be opened and they peered inside and shook the bowl slightly. If the fruit moved, it wasn’t set. In some ways I’m surprised it set at all, they were shoogling it every two minutes.

For dinner, I did spaghetti Bolognaise–it was a favourite of Simon’s. Stella came down and ate a little. The children we practically wrapped in towels to keep the sauce off them. Of course it didn’t work, Mima dropped some on her jeans, and Trish spilt some down her new jumper. I stripped off the offended garments and threw them in the washing machine. I’d saved a few other things because I knew it would happen, so Trish sat in her vest and Mima in her panties for dessert–the jelly.

Tom, the only taker of soup was not going to have any dessert until I asked the girls to tell him who made it. Once the chorus of, “Me,” died down, he thought he’d better try some.

I whipped some cream and decorated the top of the dish with it. Then accompanied from the kitchen with great excitement by my two catering assistants, the fruit jelly was processed to the table.

Actually, apart from being very cold, it was quite nice, and I had found another way of entertaining while educating them, for a rainy day. I would keep a supply of jellies in the cupboard. Wait till they see how to make trifle.

Tom declared it the best jelly he’d ever eaten, and Simon seconded his motion. “I think we need to get a board in the kitchen, so when our little maids here, cook or make something, if it’s good we write it on the board and give it a silver star. If it’s excellent we put on a gold star.” Stella and I agreed, and I nominated Simon to make a template on the computer for our worksheet. He sighed, but he wasn’t doing much else except the odd bit of baby sitting.

He had to go to hospital on Monday to have the strapping off and hopefully be declared fit to work again. Henry wasn’t too pleased as he thought Simon was skiving, which he was. However, he was also aware that I was quite stressed and that having Simon about was a something of a support for me. Henry was actually a very caring man, although he pretended he wasn’t.

He’d emailed me to say he’d be at the court tomorrow for moral support, and if we won, as we deserved, he’d take us all out to lunch. I suspected that eating would be the least of my worries tomorrow.

Tom read the girls a story while Simon helped me clear up. I thought he’d had a personality transplant, but then realised if he was faffing around the dishwasher he couldn’t do the template on the computer–a ten-minute job. So I asked him to go and do it. He grumbled but went.

He was back before I’d wiped down the draining board and table. It was a very simple table chart with large boxes into which I could write the name of the dish and a space to put the star alongside it. I’d get some stars tomorrow at the newsagent, he did those sorts of things.

I went to bed early, I was nearly dropping from exhaustion and Tom told me to go. Simon was already asleep in the chair in front of the telly, poor soul, he was exhausted too–designing a form is such hard work.

Then I got into bed and woke up or got past sleeping, I don’t know which but I couldn’t sleep. My legs were aching from my exercise that morning and my head was spinning with possible scenarios of the court room. I kept telling myself, that I couldn’t influence what the judge would say, so it was pointless worrying. I wish my brain could have accepted it’s own logic.

I got up once and went to the loo and was sick–purely nerves, but then, I was fighting for a child’s happiness and future, which I thought were better with me than with another foster parent. Arrogance? I hoped not, it wasn’t meant that way–I was just so fond of the little mite, and Trish as well, with whose special needs I possibly had some insight.

I went back to bed and Simon switched on his bedside light, “Did you just do what I thought you did?”

“Was I sick, yes.”

“Would you like a cuppa?” he asked.

“Do you want me to make one?”

“That wasn’t what I asked, would you like one?”

“I dunno, not if it makes me throw up again.”

“Don’t see why it should, I’ll go and make one.” He limped off down to the kitchen to put the kettle on. I sat in bed but didn’t want to be there, I wanted it over and done. I wondered if soldiers felt like this before an action. A minute later, I popped on my dressing gown and went down to the kitchen where Simon was just pouring the teas.

“Stella can’t sleep either, so can you take one up to her with yours?” he asked me.

“I’ll take hers up, but I’m sitting down here to drink mine, maybe if I get sleepy first then go to bed, I might get a few hours in.”

“Babes, it’s two o’clock now.”

“I know, you go on up, I’ll be up soon, I promise.”

We argued for a couple of minutes, but I said I’d read the paper for a bit and drink my tea. He reluctantly accepted things and taking Stella’s tea up with his, he mounted the stairs.

I sat looking at the pictures of Gaza and feeling a mixture of sadness and anger. Eventually I called the Disasters and Emergency Committee donations line and gave them fifty pounds. It wouldn't bring back any of the deceased but might help one or two of the living.

I woke up at four, I’d been sitting with my head on the table and had a mark down the side of my face. I shrugged and went up to bed where I finally managed to fall asleep.