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 Little Things

Have you ever stopped to think that it's often the tiny, seemingly insignificant things that end up having the greatest impact on your life? I mean, winning a million on the lottery, a head-on car crash or getting the sack - those are obvious life-changers. You'd be mad not to expect them to shake things up.

But you'd never imagine that the red underpants your Nan gave you last Christmas - you know the type, part of a triple-pack with blue and black and the aforementioned red, the sort you pick up in the supermarket between the work socks and the flannie check shirts - could have the power to completely upend your life.

This time last year, I was your typical twenty-eight-year-old, single Aussie bloke. Not a care in the world. I enjoyed my job with the council as a groundsman, took ridiculous pride in my cricket pitch (the best wicket in the neighbourhood, if I do say so myself - it's all in the fertiliser and watering, but that's another story). My mates and I played footy, drank a few too many beers, and generally coasted along without hassles or responsibilities.

Only our mate Lachie had gone over to the dark side of marriage and mortgage. To be fair, he looked disgustingly happy with it all, but I had no intention of following him down that path. A thirty-year debt, screaming kids, and a people-mover in the driveway? No thanks. I had my Nissan Skyline, my freedom, and my weekends. Life was good.

Then it happened.

The bloody washing machine died.

Not just a polite clunk or a quiet fade-out. Oh no. It went down in a blaze of glory, grinding itself into a noisy halt and spewing soapy water, lint, and unidentifiable black grease across the laundry floor like it was auditioning for a disaster film.

Among the casualties of this domestic apocalypse was a soggy, half-washed load of clothes - including, yes, the infamous red undies. Which is how I found myself, against my will, inside Breezy Brite's, the local laundromat.

I'd never set foot in the place before, and once I'd finished, I swore I never would again.

Picture it: me, hunched on a hard plastic chair, flicking through a two-year-old, dog-eared New Idea magazine. Not my idea of a top-notch Saturday morning. I was the only one there, yet every machine was churning away merrily, which made me wonder if ghosts did their washing when no one was looking.

Then the door banged open.

In came a large blue plastic laundry basket, closely followed by a beautiful girl struggling under its weight. Being the gentleman my mum always hoped I'd be, I jumped up and offered to help. She rewarded me with a smile that nearly knocked me flat.

"My stuff'll be finished in a minute," I muttered, like an absolute genius. She thanked me anyway, and we exchanged the usual laundromat small talk - broken washing machines, life's little annoyances, that sort of thing.

When my machine stopped, I crammed my clothes into the nearest dryer. By the time my socks and jocks were whirling around like demented tumbleweeds, her load was sloshing away happily.

To keep things rolling, I offered to nip next door for a couple of takeaway cappuccinos. When I got back, something had shifted. The conversation flowed easily, the plastic chair didn't feel quite so hard, and I found I wasn't in such a hurry to escape. She was funny, quick, and ridiculously easy to talk to. I was already thinking I'd struck gold.

And then disaster struck.

Her washing machine finished, she lifted the lid - and unleashed a torrent of four-letter words the likes of which I'd never heard, not even on the footy field after a dodgy ref's call.

She yanked out her clothes, one by one, and every single thing was a delicate shade of pink. Not the stylish, intentional kind of pink either. We're talking streaky, blotchy, clown-wardrobe pink.

Before I could blink, a pair of wet red underpants smacked me square in the face.

"They're yours!" she shouted, glaring at me like I'd committed some terrible crime against humanity.

And, well, what could I say? I apologised profusely, stammered something about accidents and oversight, and offered to pay for the damage. She called me a moron, which, in fairness, was hard to argue with. Eventually she calmed down, so I gave her my mobile number and told her to call me and let me know how much it was all worth. Then I gathered my laundry - with those cursed red pants perched on top like a crown of shame - and made a hasty retreat.

That night at the pub, the boys nearly wet themselves laughing when I told them the story. I laughed too, but underneath I couldn't quite shake the guilt.

Two days later, the mobile rang. 'Private number.' I nearly ignored it - thought it might be a telemarketer interrupting the footy show. But I answered.

"You owe me $253.65," a woman's voice announced. "For the clothes." She paused. "I'll be generous. Make it a round $250."

I agreed - it sounded fair. (Honestly, I wouldn't have had a clue how much women's clothes cost. She could've said five hundred and I'd have coughed it up.) Then, feeling bold, I asked if I could take her out to dinner and give her the money in person.

I braced myself for abuse. Instead, to my astonishment, she said yes.

Fast-forward: halfway through the main course, we were both laughing at the laundromat fiasco. She even snorted when she remembered the red pants smacking me in the face. I decided right then and there that the snort was the cutest sound I'd ever heard.

One dinner turned into several. Several turned into something more.

And now? Well, here we are, just over a year later. Married for six months. I traded in the Skyline for a Tarago last week - we're going to need the room, with twins on the way in four months. I've signed up to finish my horticulture qualifications at TAFE, because apparently 'responsibility' is my new middle name. I still see the boys for a weekly beer and the odd game of footy, and this weekend we're off to Lachie's place for a barbie.

Life has changed completely - and I wouldn't swap it for anything.

Who'd have guessed what a pair of red undies could lead to?

Mind you, I did finally summon up the courage to tell my Nan the truth - I'm much more of a boxer man.