Smoke gets in your eyes

It was one of those midnight calls.
The chime strikes dread into your heart. It can only be bad news at this time of the night. What is it? A loved one lost? A late-night rush to the hospital? What?

As it turned out, it was bad - but not THAT bad.

It's Sister-in-Law. A car had gone up in flames in the underground parking area of their apartment block. The place is swarming with firefighters, police - and acrid black smoke. The blaze has been put out, but not before scorching SIL's car and filling every apartment with the scent of a bonfire fuelled by rubber tyres and Lead-Free petrol.

OH clicks into Knight on a White Charger mode and leaps - superhero-like (swoon) - into his car (you can almost see his cape flapping in the breeze). SIL and her hubby have to hang around to deal with the authorities, but we can at least have their girls for the night.

At 2am, I open the door to two sleep-dazed, befuddled and slightly shell-shocked young ladies. Giving them a welcoming hug, I breathe in a heady mix of pre-pubescent anxiety, sweat, and smoke. Usually the quiet one, the eldest (let's call her El, my pet name for her) is calm, collected and doing a great job of reassuring her usually bouncy, gregarious (and aparently fearless) younger sister, Zen, who is in a state of suppressed panic and has cried enough tears to put the fire out single-eyed.

El thinks the speed at which Zen - a notorious victim of severe "Sticky Mattress Syndrome" - got out of bed when the alarm was raised is hilarious. She follows up with a series of impressive wise-cracking one-liners (esecially for a sleep-derived 11-year-old) which I guess is her way of dealing with things.

I lay a makeshift bed for Sir Lancelot (a.k.a. OH), then snuggle up with the girls, telling them the story of how my faithful little Fiat burst into flames with me and No.1 inside three Easters ago. Eventually, we fall asleep with the girls wrapped around me as I perch precariously on the edge of the bed.

Day breaks. I fall, with a bump, to the floor. Check the girls - still smokey-smelling but snoring softly - and drag myself off to No.1's room for early morning hugs.

Fast forward a few hours. Fixing breakfast for the kids. No.1 emerges from beneath the duvet on the sofa with a "Is something burning?".... Quick as a flash, El pipes up: "Again?".

Anyone for extra crispy bacon??