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"Daddy tell us a story!" demands three-year old Rachel, sitting on my foot, with a death-grip on my leg. I heave her slowly forward - backward for her - towards the bathroom, eventually headed to the bedroom that she shares with her sister Andrea. "I can't tell you a story, it's bedtime," I tell her. But I'm only fooling. I'm pretty sure she knows it. "Yes, you can! You always do!" argues Andrea. Andrea is seven and is heading to the bedroom in a much more grown-up way - standing both her feet on my other foot and hanging on to my arm as I drag her slowly forward as well. "Me? I never tell you guys stories. What are you thinking?" Heave. Drag. Heave. A NOISE erupts from the two girls. Something about "Yes you doooo!" and "We want a stooory!" So, I tell them they can have a story, but only if they both brush their teeth properly and get ready for bed. A few minutes later the girls are in their beds. And so I begin...