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goldfish and an albino aardvark.
    You haven’t married: somehow you’ve never found the right person.
    Life’s pretty dull. Your idea of a good time is to video episodes of ‘Mr Squiggle’ and watch them in slow motion.
    You pick up a newspaper. The front page photo is of Sam Jarre. Sam’s been living in Hollywood for eight years. A successful modelling career led to an acting career, playing opposite the biggest names in the motion picture industry. The photo is of Sam accepting another Academy Award: that’s three in a row. Sam charges five million bucks to make a movie now, mixes with the most famous people, has holidays in the Bahamas, is in every magazine, and does ads for Nike.
    As you cook your evening meal—pumpkin, broccoli, beans and porridge—you start dreaming of what might have been. As Sam’s partner, you could have shared that life. You could have been arriving in a limo at those Oscars last night, stepping out of the cars as the crowd cheered, walking up the red carpet, giving a few quick interviews as you went into the theatre . . .
    The most annoying thing of all is that you didn’t even keep that note Sam wrote you, way back in school. The note suggesting the two of you go steady. If you’d kept it, you could sell it now for around $25,000.
    Ah well. That’s life. You give a sigh and take a mouthful of luke warm porridge.

ou tie a bit of string round the dog’s collar and off you go to West Mitchell. It’s a long walk to an area you don’t know very well but eventually you find Blundstone Drive, a tree-lined street full of brick veneer houses. It’s a quiet street, with a few Volvos and four-wheel drives and station wagons parked in driveways.
    Number 26 is different though. Number 26’s a dark gloomy house, hard to see through the pine trees that surround it. But the dog obviously recognises it. He trots up the path happily and scratches on the front door. You tag along behind, wondering whether you’re doing the right thing.
    No one answers for ages, but the dog keeps scratching the door and whining. At last you hear footsteps on the other side of the door. The handle turns and the door starts to slide reluctantly open. It scrapes over the floor until there’s room for you to see what’s inside. You see an arm then a shoulder, then a leg and the side of a head.
    Then you see a face. It’s a very familiar face. It’s a face that’s been haunting you all day. It’s the face of the thug who wanted your locker. Yes it’s him, and right now he’s glaring at you like you’re a lamb chop and he’s a vegetarian. ‘What do you want?’ he says, only he says it all in one growl, like a burp: ‘Waddawan?’
    Then he sees the dog, which is looking up at him eagerly, wagging his little tail. And suddenly the big tough Terminator melts in front of your eyes. His face falls apart and little tears scurry down his cheeks.
    â€˜Rex!’ he says. ‘Rex!’
    He kneels on the ground and hugs the scruffy mutt. Then he looks up at you with unshed tears still shining in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry I tried to take your locker this morning,’ he says. ‘It’s just that I was so upset about losing Rex and I took it out on you. You see in the last twelve months, our house burnt down, my parents went bankrupt and died in a plane crash, my baby sister joined a street gang, and my budgie got mumps. Rex has been the only friend I’ve had. So when he went missing, I just felt I couldn’t cope any longer . . .’
    â€˜That’s OK,’ you say, feeling your eyes misting over.
    â€˜Would you like a cup of Ovaltine?’ he asks, opening the door wide.
    â€˜Sure,’ you say, stepping inside. You know this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship. He closes the door behind you. Only then do you notice the bloodstained chainsaw hidden behind