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

I Survived Car Pool

Jasper bounces into the car with the exuberance of an Energizer bunny, clearly the only one excited about the carpool I've signed up for. Signed up is one way of putting it, but sucked into is probably more apt. Either way, here we are, Monday morning with me yelling like a drill sergeant herding wayward sheep.

What Jasper likes best is that he gets a captive audience for the questions that affect his life. Last week, it was why can't he wear his swimmers if it's a car pool? I mumbled something about it being winter as I scraped ice from the windscreen. And why has his teacher, Miss Taylor, 'got way bigger boobs than you, Mum?' Luck of the draw, kiddo is all I could say to that question.

Maybe I won't be mother of the year for failing to encourage his five-year-old enquiring mind but most days, I rather have some peace. Besides, last night's glass of red, which seemed a nice idea at the time has left me with a mild headache and gurgling tummy.

Rob takes the front seat, while Jess flips the back seat down and climbs past Jasper's booster seat and into the third row. She gives his hair a tug on the way past and elicits a squawk of, "Muuum!" from her little brother. I tell him he is ok, his hair is ok, everything is ok. I give Jess a squinting glare via the rear vision mirror, which as she knows translates to, I'm tired and would rather have a colonoscopy than do car pool, so stop your crap and sit down. I'm sure her skirts are getting shorter, but I pick my battles and choose to ignore it today.

"Ok, everyone buckled in?" I'm answered by grunts of various tones.

I make the two-block drive to Eddie's, where he is waiting on the footpath. I suggest he sits next to Jasper, but he folds his lanky limbs into the rear seat next to Jess. Clearly, the too-short skirt has attracted him like a moth to a flame. His aftershave wafts through the car with eye-watering intensity. Judging by the blond tufts on his chin, shaving is probably a new experience for him.

"You smell nice." Jess murmurs, her eyelashes fluttering like a hyperactive butterfly.

In the front, I glance at Rob, in search of a shared eyeroll, but his phone screen has his full attention.

I swing the car away from the kerb faster than necessary, hoping the inertia will divert Eddie's eyes from Jess's lap by knocking his head against the side window. Instead, I get a "Woohoo" from Jasper as the tyres chirp on the bitumen. Eddie chuckles.

"Go Mrs. C," he says, "Lay some rubber."

Next stop is Pedro's. He saunters out to the car and greets us all with his thousand-watt smile. Pedro sits next to Jasper and gives him a high five. His Spanish accent flows out as smooth as melted chocolate.

"How you doin' little Jasper?"

"Good, Pedro. Hey, where do thoughts come from?"

"From that giant brain of yours, Jasper."

"Yeah, but how do they get in there?" Jasper narrows his eyes like he's contemplating a genuine conspiracy theory.

We're saved from wherever this conversation is going by an ambulance whizzing by, lights flashing. Simultaneously, the traffic in front of us slows to a crawl. Rob finally looks up from the phone to comment.

"Accident ahead."

"Bloody hell," I mutter.

"Language, Mum," Jess says in a scarily accurate imitation of me.

"Sorry, don't want you to be late." I drum the steering wheel with my fingertips. "Wonder if we can get around it."

Rob taps at his phone. "If you turn left on West St, you might be able to get through the back lane."

"Nah," Eddie chips in. "You'll hit the traffic from the private school. You need to go right on East, then left on... "

"No, no!" Pedro holds up his phone. "You gotta go east on West, then go right, no. I mean left."

"Right," I say.

"No, no," Pedro says animatedly, "left."

"Yes, I meant you're right that it's left."

"Muuum, are we going to be late?" Jess twirls a blond curl with her finger.

"Can we get a flying car?" Jasper asks seriously.

"I still think you need to get onto East." Eddie insists.

"No," I say, sounding flustered.

"Just trying to help, Mrs. C." Eddie says, making a palms-up gesture.

"Sorry, Eddie, I was talking to Jasper."

"Why not?" Jasper asks, sounding puzzled that his flying car request is being quashed.

"Couldn't afford one, even if they had been invented." Rob stares ahead at the snarl of traffic. "Can you get past that blue Toyota? You can get onto Tree St then, instead of West."

"We could get past the blue Toyota if we had a flying car. Mum, my pants are wet."

"What? Why?"

"Well," Jasper starts in a patronising tone, "Because we'd be able to fly over it."

"No, I mean why are your pants wet?"

"Oh, I spilt my juice box."

"No drinks in the car!" Rob says, then yells, "Gap, gap, gap." He points wildly at a small space miraculously created in the line of cars.

I hit the accelerator like I'm trying out for Formula 1 and we somehow squeeze in. Twenty minutes later, we've moved all of a hundred metres and a mini-war erupts in the car.

"Oh, God, Jasper, that reeks." Jess screams.

"Wasn't me." He protests.

"She who smelt, dealt it." Eddie laughs.

"Shut-up." She punches him in the arm.

I hit the child lock to let the windows down. Nothing happens.

"Mum, put the windows down!" Jasper cries. "I'm gonna die."

"I'm trying," I shout, stabbing at the button like I'm sending an S.O.S. in morse code. "And you're not going to die. It's just a fart, for goodness' sake."

"Mum, everybody dies one day." Jasper gives me this news solemnly as though our ages are reversed.

"Yes, mate, but I just meant not today and not because of a yucky smell."

The air seems physically thicker; the horrendous smell has even drowned out Eddie's aftershave.

Rob coughs. "I don't know. I mean, I think we'll be ok, but Jasper, he's only little."

"Mum?" Jasper gasps worriedly.

"Not helping, Rob." I say through gritted teeth. My staccato taps on the button dislodge the problem, a greying wad of chewing gum, which clings to my fingers.

"Oh, gross, whose is this?" I shake it free and mercifully, the windows open. The owner of the gum is not taking responsibility and neither is the owner of the fart.

Rob puts his whole head out of the window, choosing exhaust fumes over whatever kind of hell has been let loose in the car. Pedro's face is a picture of guilt, so we have a winner for the impromptu round of 'Who Farted?' There is also bewilderment as though even he can't believe what's seeped from his anus.

"Pedro?" I ask cautiously, noticing he's gone quiet.

"Sorry! Mamma made burritos last night." Inexplicably, he adds, "I can get the recipe if you like."

"Geez, what was in 'em? Roadkill?" Rob yells, his head still outside sucking in cold air.

"If roadkill was eaten and vomited by a dinosaur." Eddie laughs.

Jasper, nostrils firmly pinched, continues the description. "... and then buried in a grave with zombies and then dug up and smeared in dog pooh and fish guts and... "

"Ok, thank you Jasper, we get the picture." I stop him mid-sentence, though he's not wrong.

Jess whines, "We're dying back here, Mum." She waves her sports towel, trying to coax the stomach-turning stench to exit through the open windows. The fart is not obliging.

Pedro protests. "Hey, don't send it back this way."

"What?" Eddie yells. "It's your smell, mate. She's just trying to give it back."

"I'm sure we'll all survive." I'm not really convinced by this point and start imaging the headlines, 'Carpool Catastrophe - Clan Croak on Commute'. Or, 'Offensive Odour Offs Ordinary Occupants on Outing'.

As I'm wondering if Pedro's whole family are currently experiencing burrito-flavoured wind, the traffic starts to move. I suspect the drivers are trying to distance themselves from the nuclear cloud streaming from our windows.

I ease the car into the school's drop-off lane. "I feel sick," Jasper announces sadly.

I unbuckle him and touch my hand to his forehead. "Nah, you're fine, it was probably just Pedro's fart. We all feel a bit off."

Even though we are running behind schedule, I hesitate before driving off in anticipation of Jasper's last-minute question. He always has at least one.

"Mum, does the Prime Minister fart?"

"Yes, everyone does."

"Even you?"

"Never!" I state, trying to sound indignant. "Mothers don't fart."

His gives me a knowing smirk and the colour seems to return to his pale cheeks as he waves goodbye.

Jess' school is next and she exits the car with seconds to spare before the bell. Eddie watches her little skirt flutter as she jogs through the school's gate. I secretly hope the fart chokes him.

Another two kilometres and Rob, Pedro and Eddie gather their work bags.

"Thanks, Mrs. C," Eddie and Pedro offer as they get out. Rob leans over to kiss my cheek.

"Thanks, love. Pick us up at five?"

"Yeah, yeah," I say. "And Rob, if you ever lose your licence again, you're walking. And Eddie, stop ogling Jess, you're too old for her. And Pedro, in future, please evacuate your bowels before you get in this car."

I barely make time to yell, "Have a good day at work," before I ease away from the kerb to enjoy the quiet drive home.

Though the morning air is chilly, I leave the windows down for a good half block before I feel confident that the fart has finally dissipated or perhaps headed off in search of a better life. I even smile as I begin to feel a bit sorry for Pedro.

A bare hint of shame is all I have for the fact that he has taken full blame for my own silent but deadly release of gas. I start to laugh at the brilliant timing of using his little escape of bottom vapour to mask my vile flatulence. Oh yes, Pedro. I see your mother's burritos and raise you last night's snack of lentil crackers and bean dip washed down with a glass of red wine.