Many writers have shared their thoughts with the public:

"There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you." - Beatrix Potter

"The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say." - Ana s Nin

"Sharing your writing, being enlarged by others' writing, is what makes you feel famous." - Gretchen Bernabei

"Writing is not an amusing occupation. It is a combination of ditch-digging, mountain-climbing, treadmill and childbirth." - Edna Ferber

"Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing." - Ben Franklin

"One must be drenched in words, literally soaked in them, to have the right ones to form themselves into the proper pattern at the right moment." - Hart Crane

"There are three rules for writing. Unfortunately, no one can agree what they are." - W. Somerset Maugham

The Good Guy

My hold-it all-in undies are cutting into my legs in a most uncomfortable fashion and I'm trying not to let my facial expression match the skin-puckering that I imagine is happening down there beneath my dress. The brand promises the latest in fabric technology and design with magical, stomach-flattening comfort. With my stomach being more akin to a deployed air bag than the flat torso pictured on the packaging, that excess belly needs to be pushed somewhere.

Right now, that somewhere is my bladder. Naturally, I've drunk copious amounts of water prior to arrival because I read in 'Sexy After Forty' magazine that it plumps the skin, helping to stretch out those crinkly lines around the eyes and lips. You know what else it plumps out? The bladder. No crinkly lines in mine right now, so before it bursts like a pregnant elephant's water breaking, I need to get myself to the nearest toilet. This means politely excusing myself to my just-met-five-minutes-ago blind date. Steve is surprisingly pleasant-looking. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but not ugly either, for which I must remember to thank Miranda from work for setting this up. Regardless of the outcome.

Steve seems as nervous as I am and I hope he thinks that I'm surprisingly pleasant-looking or at least, not ugly. He offers to buy popcorn while I use the cinema's restroom. I try to sashay across the foyer to give the impression that the need for the toilet is in no way urgent. Once I pass through the door of the lady's room, I waddle cross-legged into the nearest stall and lock the door while performing a bouncy tap dance.

In hindsight, I wished I had not agreed to this date, but Miranda was insistent that Steve was a good guy and we'd really hit it off. The fact that she's twenty-something and I'm twice that and then some should have been a red flag. Maybe she had conveniently forgotten that the last time she suggested a blind date had been with her neighbour. Eric turned out to be an old-school gentleman, which was kind of refreshing except that he was also an old-school senior citizen. Call me ageist, but I feigned a headache early on during our night out when he wanted to drop into the supermarket because incontinence aids were on special.

Ironically, those particular products enter my mind now, given my current predicament. With some difficulty, I shimmy out of my underwear to use the loo. The relief is almost euphoric. The struggle to redon the wretched underwear is another challenge altogether as it appears that the latest technology fabric has snapped back to some kind of factory setting. No amount of tugging is going to see my bottom back in these undies. I should have foreseen the issue when I had to lie on my bed to pull them on in the first place. Obviously, there is no room to prostrate myself in the cubicle and the fact that I'd even consider lying on a public toilet floor should horrify me. There's a time limit too, partly because the movie is about to start but mostly because I don't want Steve to think I'm pooping. It's been a while since I dated, but I'm sure there are rules about taking a dump on a first date. Surely it would be at least date five before you admit to being a human with fully functioning bowels.

Panties stowed in my hand bag, I return to the foyer, where Steve awaits. I carry the bag protectively in front of my abdomen to hide my tummy, which now bounces unhindered after its escape. Steve doesn't seem to notice the change and I relax a little. I mean, what do I think he'll say? Gosh, Dehlia, you look flabbier than when you went in there.

Instead, he casually takes my arm while I rummage in my bag for the movie tickets. My glasses are buried somewhere beneath the stashed underwear, so I squint at the tickets to determine cinema and seat numbers. The cinema is dark and the trailers are playing as we find our seats.

We sit through a few more ads while I try to decide if it's appropriate to start on the popcorn before the movie starts. Steve places the large tub on the armrest between us, which I take as definite permission to eat a few pieces now. I nibble like a little mouse trying to appear ladylike. I know that if alone, I'd be stuffing it in my gob by the handful, but these are the small sacrifices one must make in the interest of not seeming to be a pig. Another date rule almost on par with the first-date crapping rule.

I've deliberately chosen a tame romcom with hopefully nothing raunchier than some PG cuddling and the odd stolen kiss (with no tongue). Until right at the end, when the boy gets the girl and they have a good old pash, but it will be tastefully hidden by palm fronds as the camera pans back. Afterwards, Steve and I will have that uplifting feeling that follows a happy ending. With him being the good guy Miranda promised, we will also chuckle about our favourite scenes.

The screen is black as the sound starts. The puffing and panting suggest someone is exercising and once the picture becomes clear, we see that is indeed the case. However, while the setting is a gym, the way the couple are using that bench immediately has me questioning the PG rating. The fact that they are naked and we are now copping a close-up of jiggling genitals cements the fact that this is not the movie I expected.

Too say I'm shocked at the shenanigans is the ultimate of understatements. Apart from trying to look anywhere but at the enormous boobs now filling most of the screen, I am now wondering what the hell Steve must think of this. He'd been happy for me to organise the tickets and hadn't asked what we were seeing.

My thoughts pedal at warp speed. Is he thinking that this is actually what I'd choose? Is it a practical joke? Should I pretend it's a practical joke? Is this my idea of a turn-on? Wait, is he turned on? Who watches this stuff? Bunch of weirdos. I'm not fat, it's just a bit of a paunch. Did I feed the cat?

As I turn to look at Steve, my mouth opens and closes like a dying fish, but unintelligible sounds are coming out instead of words and I cough up a piece of popcorn. His expression, in the half-light mirrors mine, but his words are clear, "What the f**k?"

Finally, my voice kicks in with a string of apologies and excuses. Steve suggests we leave. He doesn't have to tell me twice, but as we try to shuffle past other patrons, who I label weirdos for watching this film, there are rumblings of, "Oi, sit down. Shhh. I can't see."

We run into the legs of a large, leather-clad weirdo who is not happy with the disruption we're causing. Steve grabs my hand and we clamber over a vacant seat into the row behind. We try to step around a weirdo couple whose limbs are entwined like mating snakes. They are putting on a performance that might rival the movie, but at least they're clothed. I try to get past, but unfortunately, my heel hooks itself on someone's foot and I lose grip of Steve as I plunge forward. The popcorn, which had been tucked under his free arm, purges itself onto some other weirdo's lap and some expletives follow.

Steve kindly helps to remove me from the lap of the weirdo on the end of the row, who says something like, "Yeah, baby," and slaps my bum. Finally free, we make for the door, the chorus of shooshes only drowned out by the surround-sound of moaning from the movie soundtrack. Our empty popcorn tub hits me in the head, which is just rude, but we don't stop.

The bright light of the foyer hits us like we're a pair of criminals about to be interrogated. I'm sure my face is a shade of red that suggests unquestionable guilt. I point at a poster on the wall. "There," I say to Steve, "That's the movie I bought tickets for." He doesn't speak as he scans the large, glossy advertisement, which shows a pretty girl holding a bunch of flowers and looking practically nun-like compared to what we've just seen.

I delve my hand into my handbag to find the tickets as if I need to prove my innocence to this guy that I'm quite likely never going to see again.

"Here, look," I say. He turns to see my underwear floating in slow motion from my bag to the floor. They settle on the carpet in all their nanna-knicker glory and I note that they are similar to the ones in that Bridget Jones's Diary film. By the way, Bridget J is the kind of romcom I had in mind for this blind date night.

Steve stoops to pick them up at the exact time I dive forward to retrieve them myself. Our heads knock hard and we groan and say sorry in unison. Steve takes one of the movie tickets and points out that we went into the wrong cinema.

"Well, that's embarrassing," I offer apologetically.

Like the good guy that Miranda proclaimed him to be, Steve smiles and says, "Ah, don't worry about it. Besides, I've seen that movie already. Do you want to get a coffee?"

Relieved and only slightly concerned that he's not joking about the movie, I nod as he adds, "and I've never said this on a first date before, but let me pick up your panties for you."