This column started as a happy accident. After twenty years in television, I’d resigned from the ABC to welcome baby number three. And then The West phoned, requesting a column on domestic life from the wilds of suburbia.

An old boss rang: “Are you sure?” he asked. “Every week, you’ll sit down and open up a vein for inspiration.”

He was right. I became attuned to my surroundings. I made small talk with interesting strangers. I stored away the snippets of a spat overheard at the checkout. I pushed my life outwards to absorb more. I once drove to York because the town was having a Medieval Fair and I was desperate for ideas. That became a column on manliness. Never had I seen so many grunting he-men in one paddock.

I made a rule to only write from personal experience: I hoped it would keep me authentic. I learnt that good writing needs clear thinking. I carried a notebook with me everywhere. My family and friends became used to my cries of frustration and woe. The gist of a column would float around in my head all weekend, then the column itself would arrive about four days and six drafts later.