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“Mr Dragon Hates Broccoli.” Here was Marmie, straight out of bed, his hair on end. “Dad, why is the bedtime stories guy here?”

Apparently, this was now my life, a surreal existence of humans in one small space. If I had thought I’d known what I was doing at some point last week, that was all gone now. What on earth was he on about?

“Hello,” Gray said, sitting down on his haunches. “You’ve watched that then?”

“Mr Dragon hates broccoli, but if you dip it in some garlic?”

He laughed. The…film star…slash singer…slash…bedtime-stories-garlic-man?

“You wrote that, didn’t you?” Constance said, suddenly right there in the thick of it. “Mum bought us the book. We should still have it somewhere.”

“I know. Not my best work, but hey, I got to read it on TV!”

“It’s funny. I like it when the dragon burns dinner and everyone shouts.”

“Yeah.”

“True story?” Constance smarmed. I wanted to remind her that she was still in her pyjamas and should know better, but hey.

Dressing gown. Check. Not any better myself. Indeed.

“You go to Kilham Prep?” the Dragon man asked, like he was now part of this family. Meanwhile, my son was back on the floor, trying to show him the fire engine, banging it against his leg, speaking loudly in Spanish.

He’d soon figure it all out.

“Yes. Last year, and then I’m hoping to go to Bloomsbury Art College,” Constance said, now draped over the kitchen counter as Stewart was buttering toast like this was some kind of breakfast café.

“Oh, nice. I’ve heard of it. We’re looking at schools for Jay—I’ll need to pick your brain at some point. And you went to Regents Primary?”

“Queen Anne’s.” Constance smiled. “Jasmine’s going there, isn’t she?”

“Yes.” Proud dad pregnant pause. I knew them well because I did those too.

“Constance did very well there.” Pause. “Won awards.”

Cheesy grin. Now my daughter was rolling her eyes. But I was not part of the furniture here, as I finally took charge and got Marmie onto a chair. Toast on plate. Used a coaster.

Okay. Deep breath.

“Want this one on the bar stool?” The Dieter was now holding my son in his arms and getting pelted by a toy fire truck, not even blinking.

“At the table, please,” I said, squirming as he ducked from another blow, then said something in what sounded like perfect Spanish.

“You speak Spanish?” Constance asked in awe.

“Colonel Martinez did. I had to learn some select phrases for that role, so now I can confidently prevent bands of terrorists from blowing up a plane—in Spanish. Good skill, if you’re in that situation, but I’m slightly useless otherwise. I think I told your brother here to stop killing me with vehicles. In some roundabout way.”

“Oh.”

“Phinney, be nice. Please don’t hit The Dieter.”

“Words I never thought would come out of my dad’s mouth.”

“Thanks, Constance.” I grinned.

“I’ve heard worse.” He laughed. “No worries. No me mates con un vehículo, por favor.”

“Anyone need more tea?”