It's 1975. I am seven years old and since my parents separated a year or so previously I have lived with various foster parents, all of which for some reason or another have been deemed "unsuitable".

As a last resort I have been placed with the same foster family as my younger sister. Since our departure from the family unit it is the first time that we have been placed somewhere together. So here I am in the poshest part of Bournemouth with what seem like the richest, foster parents.

I never see the "father" of the house - he works abroad for months at a time, so it's me, my younger sister and Mrs McLain-Smith, the "mother" figure.

Along with Mrs McLain-Smith there are her children. The oldest boy must be about 18. He's a bit frightening and grumpy so I stay out of his way as much as possible. There's a younger boy, about 15. He goes to a private secondary school. There are also two older girls, both of whom have left home. One lives up north somewhere with her husband and children, while the other one still lives locally and visits regularly.

I stay out of her way though; like the rest of the family she seems to have taken a dislike to me but has welcomed my younger sister with open arms.

On this particular morning I have just finished my breakfast and am in the reading room when I hear the doorbell ring. Mrs McLain-Smith opens the door and invites the visitor in. After a few minutes I hear Mrs McLain-Smith call to me.

"Maxine darling, come here please," she calls in her false caring voice.

I walk into the room where I am greeted by my social worker who has made herself comfortable on the sofa. She's smiling that sickly smile of hers, pretending to be pleased to see me, and begins to speak.

"Maxine, how would you like a holiday?"
"A holiday?" I ask, thoughts of Butlins and the beach entering my head, "Where to?"
"There's a place not far from here with lots of other children to play with," replied the social worker.
"Do you mean a holiday camp like Butlins?" I ask innocently.
"Sort of," the social worker lies," only this time you'll have your own bedroom and you'll be staying there a little bit longer than a normal holiday."

I suddenly think about Natasha and ask if she will be coming too.

"No, she'll be staying here," came the answer rather bluntly.
"Okay, shall I get my things ready?" I ask excitedly.
"It's already packed and in the car ready to go," interrupted Mrs McLain-Smith, "are you ready?"
"Yes but I'll just go and say goodbye to Natasha."
"Don't you worry about that," Mrs McLain-Smith said quickly, "I'll tell her you said goodbye."
"Okay then, I'm ready."

Soon enough I'm in the social worker's car, my bags all packed for my wonderful holiday. After 10 minutes or so we enter a gate with a driveway leading to a rather large looking building. It looks more like a school than a holiday camp.

"Here we are then," announces the social worker.

I look around. No sign of a beach, or a park, or a funfair. As I get out of the car I watch as the social worker opens the car boot to reveal all my worldly belongings. At seven years old it's just two large holdalls of clothes and a few teddies, my favourite being my black and white panda.

It suddenly dawns on me that I'm not going on holiday and I stand still, refusing to move another inch.

"You lied to me," I protest as the social worker closes the boot.
"I just didn't want you to get upset. Come on, it's not that bad. You'll like it here, there's lots of children for you to play with."
"I don't want to stay here. I'm not going into a home." I stamp my feet and begin one of my famous temper tantrums.

I stay in the same spot shouting and screaming while the social worker enters the building with my bags. She comes out a couple of minutes later empty handed, and walks over to me. By now I have used up all my energy and calmed down slightly. She takes my hand and reluctantly I let her lead me into the building.

Once inside we are greeted by Mrs Hargreaves, the officer in charge, who shows us into her office. Still annoyed by the way I was tricked into coming to this place I sit down on a chair and refuse to speak. Mrs Hargreaves is telling me about how life goes on in this place but I'm not listening.

At an early age I developed a method of "switching off" when I don't want to hear something. I still do it now in my adult life.

Mrs Hargreaves realises I'm not listening and pats her lap, beckoning me to move closer to her. As I move towards her I cry. I don't know why but the tears just come flooding out. She pulls me onto her lap and I sit uncomfortably while she tries to make me feel welcome.

Close up I can smell the cough sweet in her mouth, and as I look at her face I can see all the wrinkles; she looks really old! (As I look back now she must have been in her late 50s). She has a Scottish accent and I find it rather difficult to understand what she is saying. She's trying to explain to me that this place is not a children's home, but an assessment centre where children go while the social services decide what's best for them.

"You won't be here long, just two or three months," she explained, but I wasn't impressed.
"I don't want to live here. Why can't I stay with Natasha?" I ask.
"Because you don't get on," came the rather surprising reply.

I didn't understand at the time but have since found out that there were accusations of me hitting my sister on more than one occasion, and even one of me pushing her down the hill at Corfe Castle, near Swanage. I don't remember even going there with her, let alone wanting to push her down the extremely high, steep hill.

Mrs Hargreaves puts one arm around me and with the other one takes the cough sweet out of her mouth and places it in mine. I want to refuse but before I get a chance to it is already in my mouth. To this day the thought of that action makes my stomach turn.

After 10 minutes or so the social worker says goodbye and leaves me with this woman whom I've already decided I don't like. Mrs Hargreaves then leads me out of her office and calls to a member of staff who is walking up the corridor.

"Jane, could you come and show Maxine around the house and take her to see her bedroom?"

The younger woman smiles and picks up my bags. She seems kind and I feel a bit more at ease as she talks to me. On the route to my room she shows me the dining room. I've never seen so many tables and chairs in one room! We walk up a corridor, which leads into a room with 10 or 12 comfortable chairs in it.

"This is one of our two 'quiet rooms'," explains Jane, "it's where the children can come and sit if they're fed up, or just want to relax."

At that point the doors at the other end of the room burst open and two teenage boys come running through, laughing.

"No running please," orders Jane as the two boys almost bump into us.
"Sorry miss," says one of them as they both start to laugh again.
"While you're here, why don't you say hello to Maxine?"

The two boys look at me and one of them utters something rude under his breath before they both run out of the room.

"Don't worry about those two, they're harmless," Jane says as we head up the stairs to my bedroom.

As I enter the room I look at the already made bed with a plain yellow cover on it. Jane places my bags on the floor and asks if I would like a hand to unpack everything.

I agree and as she starts to place my clothes in drawers I pick up my panda and look out of the window, clutching the soft toy tightly in my arms. The window faces the front of the building, where there are one or two younger children playing on skateboards.

As I stare out of the window I begin to daydream. Here I am, seven years old and in a children's home. Why am I here and what's going to happen to me?

Used courtesy of the TooWrite website