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Sandra had lived there. They’d been talking about moving somewhere bigger when Annie was born, but when things had started going bad the idea had been forgotten.
    Previous owners had knocked out the hallway of the small workers’ cottage. Now two bedrooms opened straight off the kitchen/living area. The bedroom at the back of the house was still Annie’s, although a bed covered with a pink gingham doona cover had replaced the cot a couple of years earlier. As a second-birthday surprise, he’d spent a whole weekend painting fluffy clouds on one wall, and on her third had added pink fairies and birds everywhere. It was by no means a work of beauty, but Annie loved it.
    Kerry had thought about selling after Sandra had moved out. Annie always seemed so happy there though, he could never quite bring himself to do it. He didn’t really want to live anywhere else anyway.
    Besides, if he moved, he’d have to deal with ten years of accumulated crap in the storeroom downstairs.
    Kerry clicked the television on and flicked through the channels, knowing it was a waste of time. Even SBS, usually good for some naked euro flesh at this time of night, had let him down. It seemed to be some dark foreign thing about two women but there was far too much talking for his liking.
    He turned it off again, restless, and picked up the red folder which he’d only glanced at in the bar. It was pretty fancy – red leather with cream stitching around the outside. Annie would like it, he thought idly.
    There were two sheets of cream paper inside with four or five typed headings on each page and a blank space underneath. At the top of the first one was written:
    The only time I ever remember my grandmother getting angry was when I was about ten and I told her I was bored .
    â€˜Alice,’ she said, ‘if you can’t figure out a way to entertain yourself with all the things you have here, then you don’t deserve to be happy.’
    I’ve thought about what she said a lot lately and have decided that advice doesn’t just apply to a little girl. I think we can all be a lot happier than we are, but that maybe we have to work a little to make that happen .
    Humour me here. To start with, go and put on a song you like. Then find yourself a drink you enjoy, sit down and have a look at this .
    Kerry almost looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching. This was like something out of a reality TV show. Pretty soon Brian would walk in with a six-pack laughing about what an idiot Kerry was.
    Hell, if Brian even knew he was reading this stuff, he wouldn’t be worrying about Kerry’s drought. He’d be thinking that he batted for the other side.
    But the champagne was still creating a warm fuzz in his blood. He walked over to the CD player and flicked through the discs splayed across the top.
    A Janis Joplin CD caught his eye and he slipped that into themachine. He waited for her throaty voice to begin and adjusted the volume at the dial.
    A drink … Normally a beer would be his beverage of choice, but after champagne, somehow that didn’t seem appropriate. Instead, he pulled a bottle of port down from on top of the kitchen cabinet. A quick search of the cupboard found no port glasses. He poured a good measure into a mug instead.
    Back at the table, Kerry pulled the red folder back toward him. Instead of the expected questions about marital status, job, hobbies, etc, the first heading was What are some of the things that make you feel good (alcohol and drugs excluded – sorry)?
    Kerry smiled. At least she had a sense of humour. He picked up a pen.

R ebecca closed Sam’s bedroom door and trudged down the hallway. Every part of her was weary, from her gritty eyes to her aching soles.
    She paused in the doorway to her and Jeremy’s bedroom.
    Once again the tidying fairy hadn’t appeared.
    All the children’s stories proclaimed that you had to really believe in something