Memorable moments: The gangly champion

In my early school days, I was the quintessential nerd—more likely to be found in the library than on the rugby pitch. My athletic career started with a distinct lack of promise; I spent my first few rugby matches standing aimlessly on the field, sucking my thumb while my mother watched from the sidelines in a state of terminal embarrassment.

But in Standard 3, aged 10, my gangly, awkward frame suddenly found its purpose. I discovered I could leap. I could leap high, and I could leap far.

That year, for the first time in my life, I wasn't just "the smart kid." I won the high jump and the long jump for my age group. Then, feeling bold, I competed in the age group above mine—and I won both of those, too. I spent the rest of the day vibrating with the anticipation of the prize-giving ceremony.

I went up twice to collect my cups for my own age group. Then came the awards for the seniors. The presenter looked at the list, squinted, and frowned. He looked at me, looked back at the paper, and decided there had clearly been a massive administrative mistake. No one "nerdy" could possibly sweep two age groups.

He skipped the award entirely. I sat back down, trophy-less and invisible once again.

It was a crushing disappointment, but I eventually found my redemption. A few years later, I walked back up to that stage to receive the award for "Most Improved Rugby Player." I had finally traded my thumb for a tackle—and this time, they didn't need a calculator to believe it.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.

Memorable moments: The great Kosciuszko meltdown

I am, by nearly all accounts, a mild-mannered person. I don’t raise my voice much and I certainly don't have a reputation for foul language. But that was before I took a camping trip to Mount Kosciuszko.

Lesson number one: never pitch your tent in a hollow in an area renowned for torrential downpours. By midnight, it felt less like a campsite and more like I was sleeping on a waterbed that was rapidly losing its structural integrity. Water was cascading through the entrance, and the world was pitch black.

Then, a cold spike of adrenaline hit me. I remembered my most precious possession—my non-waterproof iPhone—was somewhere on the floor of this newly formed indoor swimming pool.

I fumbled for my torch. Nothing. I fumbled for the phone, my hands splashing through the rising tide. As the panic set in, a side of me I didn't know existed suddenly took the stage. I began swearing with a ferocity, rhythm, and linguistic variety that would have stunned a dockworker.

The next morning, as we wrung out our sleeping bags, my friend Gavin was still in awe.

"My God, Graeme," he laughed. "I wish I’d recorded that. We could have published a definitive dictionary of the world's most creative swear words based solely on your performance last night."

I went into that tent a calm, spiritual seeker; I emerged the only man in New South Wales to have officially cursed a thunderstorm into submission.

Memorable moments: The double-decker betrayal

One evening, leaving my office at Old Mutual, I was hit by a wave of ravenous, prehistoric hunger. The kind of hunger that bypasses logic and heads straight for the nearest Spur restaurant. I pulled over and ordered the largest thing on the menu: a "Double Decker" giant burger, flanked by a mountain of chips and enough onion rings to build a small tower.

I inhaled it. By the time I wiped the last bit of sauce from my face, I wasn't just sated; I was physically compromised. I felt like a snake that had swallowed a particularly large goat.

I waddled through my front door, only to be greeted by my girlfriend’s radiant, expectant smile.

"Just in time!" Ally chirped. "I’ve been cooking that fancy meal I promised you all afternoon."

My blood ran cold. I’d completely forgotten. She lived to cook, and more importantly, she lived to watch me eat. She settled into her chair and watched me like a hawk, waiting for that signature look of "Myburgh-pleasure" to cross my face.

I performed like an Oscar-winner. I chewed, I hummed, and I forced every forkful of that "fancy" dinner into a stomach that was already at maximum capacity. Against all odds, I cleared the plate. I had done it. I was safe.

Then, she stood up with a triumphant glint in her eye.

"And now," she announced, "for dessert!"

She marched back into the kitchen and returned with a massive, steaming helping of sticky date pudding, buried under a literal mound of thick, yellow custard.

I went in looking for a quick burger; I left realizing that the only thing heavier than a Spur Double Decker is the weight of a lie topped with extra custard.

Memorable moments: The posh poodle predicament

When I was an early teen, I went on holiday to Plettenberg Bay with my school friend, Greg Perkes. We stayed with his grandparents, who were the living embodiment of "posh"—all silver tea services, refined accents, and an atmosphere so polite you felt you needed a permit just to sneeze.

We were sitting in the lounge, balancing delicate china plates on our knees and exchanging pleasantries. My arm was hanging casually by the side of my chair when, suddenly, I felt something latch onto my forearm. It was followed by a very specific, very rhythmic sensation between my fingers.

One of the family’s prize poodles had decided I was the love of its life.

In any other house, someone would have shouted or shooed the dog away. But in this house, the commitment to "decorum" was absolute. Greg’s grandparents continued to discuss the weather and the tea with unwavering focus, staring directly ahead as if my arm wasn't currently being courted by a small, curly-haired romantic.

I was trapped. I didn't want to rip my arm away and shatter the fragile polite silence, so I just sat there—nodding, sipping tea, and trying to look "refined" while a dog made a very honest woman out of my left limb.

It took an eternity to delicately extricate myself without making a scene.

I went in expecting a lesson in high-society manners; I left realizing that "posh" is just a fancy word for being able to ignore a poodle’s mid-afternoon climax while asking if I’d like another lump of sugar.

Memorable moments: The smouldering scalp

By eighteen, I was already losing my hair. My father was entirely bald, and seeing my future reflected in his shiny scalp every day filled me with a quiet, obsessive panic. I was convinced that no woman would ever look twice at a man whose hairline was in such a rapid retreat.

Then Oliver moved in.

He was my age and, remarkably, even balder than I was. But Oliver didn’t look like a man in despair; he was happy, confident, and had a gorgeous girlfriend who clearly adored him. To me, he was a living miracle.

One evening, we had a heart-to-heart. I confessed my anxieties and told him how much I admired his "Zen" attitude toward his reflection. Oliver leaned back and gave me a wry smile.

"It wasn't always this easy," he admitted. "A while back, I was sitting in the back of the car behind my mum and dad. My father’s perfectly bald head was right there in front of me, staring me in the face. I looked at it with such focused, concentrated vehemence that I felt like a human magnifying glass. I honestly expected his scalp to start smouldering right then and there."

The image of Oliver trying to set his father’s head on fire with the sheer power of his "balding-rage" was too much. I started to laugh. Then he started to laugh. Soon, we were both doubled over, gasping for air in one of those rare, soul-cleansing fits of hysteria.

In that moment, the weight of years of obsession simply evaporated. A few months later, I met Ally, and the issue of my hair—or lack thereof—simply ceased to exist.

It turns out the best treatment for male-pattern baldness isn't a lotion or a pill—it's a housemate with a shiny head and a funny story to tell. 

Memorable moments: The five-day fast

In 2015, I planned a five-day trek along the Tsitsikamma coast. My friend Chrisel—a woman with a legendary appetite and a deep, spiritual devotion to dinner—flew into Cape Town the night before we set off.

Being responsible for the food on our hike, I handed her a small survival pack of trail snacks: a few nut bars, some chocolates, and a packet of crackers and cheese. It was the standard "emergency sugar" kit for a long day in the mountains. 

We drove to the start, hiked the first day, and eventually rolled into the overnight hut. Because this was a "luxury" hike, our actual provisions were being dropped off by vehicle each evening. On that first night, a feast fit for a king appeared: piles of fresh meat for a braai, salads, and all the trimmings.

Chrisel let out a sigh of relief that was louder than the crashing surf outside.

"Oh, thank goodness!" she gasped, eyeing the steak. "I thought that little packet you gave me last night was my food for the entire hike!"

I suppose I should have clarified the menu; for eight hours, she’d been hiking through one of the world's most beautiful landscapes, mentally calculating how to make one nut bar last until Thursday.

Memorable moments: The forbidden linens

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at my friend Patrick’s house in Constantia. His family was incredibly wealthy and social, the kind of people who hosted high-stakes dinner parties for his father’s corporate clients.

One afternoon, preparation for a particularly "fancy" evening was in full swing. while Patrick and I were busy on the trampoline, I retreated inside to use the guest loo. There, hanging prominently above a set of pristine, plush hand towels, was a massive, handwritten note:

"DON'T USE THE TOWELS ON PAIN OF DEATH!"

Clearly, Patrick’s mother had reached her breaking point with her children’s messy habits and wanted those towels to remain magazine-perfect for the arrival of the dignitaries.

The party began, the champagne flowed, and the house filled with fifty of the city’s most influential people. But, as Patrick told me the next day, his mother had committed a fatal social error: she forgot to remove the note.

For the entire night, fifty sophisticated guests entered that bathroom, read the threat, and—terrified of whatever "death" awaited them at the hands of their hostess—exited in total silence.

The dinner was a triumph and the wine was top-shelf, but by the end of the evening, those towels remained exactly as they started: fluffy, bone-dry, and arguably the most feared objects in Constantia.

Memorable moments: The profane pharaoh

At school, it was boys only—so naturally, boys had to play the female roles. For reasons no one ever fully explained, I became the go-to woman.

I played everything from anxious mothers to dramatic widows, but the peak was an elderly spinster on a plane who foils a hijacking attempt. I studied my gran for days—her posture, her voice, the way she pursed her lips at mild disapproval. It worked. I won the annual acting award.

But by my final year, I’d had enough.

“Bugger this,” I thought. “I want a masculine role.”

We were doing Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat, and I went straight for Pharaoh—the Elvis-style showstopper. Pelvic thrusts. Swagger. Power. Redemption.

Opening night: I cycled onto stage in padded cycling shorts (for reasons that made sense at the time), grabbed the microphone, and launched into full Elvis mode. The thrusts were… enhanced. The crowd loved it. Slight complication: my gran was in the second row, witnessing the entire evolution of her observational study in reverse.

But it was a triumph. Overnight, I went from deeply uncool to oddly legendary among the younger boys.

Then came the final night.

I cycled on. Big entrance. Huge energy. Grabbed the wired microphone… and nothing.

Silence.

Without thinking, I whispered loudly, “Switch on the effing microphone!”

At which exact moment… it switched on.

My voice boomed through the entire hall.

There was a stunned pause.

Then the biggest laugh of the entire show.

I set out to prove I was a man's man; I ended up proving that if you’re going to swear in front of your grandmother, you might as well do it in padded bike shorts with a backing band.

Memorable moments: The gem squash gambit

At school, some teachers—especially the formidable Miss Mallet—were legendary for their "clean plate" policy. This was no issue for "human garbage cans" like me, but for my classmate Sean Peche, Friday lunch was a weekly brush with death. Sean harbored a primal, soul-deep hatred for fish, and he spent every Friday gagging his way through a greasy fillet under the unblinking gaze of Miss Mallet.

One Friday, Sean arrived with a plan. He meticulously ate the flesh of his gem squash, leaving the hollowed-out green skin behind. Then, with the precision of a structural engineer, he began packing his fried fish into the shell. He compressed it so tightly it achieved the density of a black hole, before flipping the squash upside down to make it look like a harmless, untouched vegetable.

It was a masterpiece of camouflage. Unfortunately, Miss Mallet was a veteran of the "fish ruse" wars.

She marched over, flipped the squash, and exposed the compressed contraband. In a move of true pedagogical cruelty, she announced that nobody—not one of us—could leave for playtime until Sean had consumed every single, high-density mouthful.

We sat there in agonizing solidarity, watching Sean’s heroic, pale-faced struggle against the laws of biology. How he didn't decorate the dining hall floor I’ll never know.

Sean may have lost the battle against the gem squash, but he won the respect of every hungry boy who just wanted to go outside and kick a ball.

Memorable moments: The blackboard’s secret

In high school, we were plagued by a phantom prankster whose commitment to the bit was truly terrifying. We never did find out who it was, but their magnum opus remains etched in my memory (and my nostrils) to this day.

It started as a faint, metallic tang in our maths classroom. By Tuesday, it was a distraction. By Thursday, it was a biological hazard. The odor became so thick and aggressive that the entire class was forced to evacuate, relocating to the school lawn to solve equations in the fresh air.

Eventually, the school authorities traced the epicenter of the stench to the front of the room. They began detaching the massive, heavy blackboard from the wall, and as the wood pulled away from the stone, the culprit was revealed.

A large, green, thoroughly putrefied piece of fish—which had been ripening in the dark for days—slid slowly down the wall. It landed with a sickening squelch directly into the open satchel of a very unfortunate student standing below.

The culprit was never caught, leaving the mystery unsolved for decades.

I suppose we’ll never know who the phantom was, but I’d like to think that somewhere out there, a retired prankster is still smiling, knowing he’s the only person in history to make a roomful of teenagers actually want to go outside and do trigonometry.

Memorable moments: The wailing waterfall

I was on a guided hike to the summit of the Drakensberg. At the very top, a pristine rock pool sat perched right at the lip of a massive waterfall, its water spilling over the edge into the abyss below. It was a scene of rugged beauty—and the perfect stage for some high-altitude bravado.

There was a girl in the group I was particularly keen to impress. I figured a fearless, mid-air leap into that infinity pool would cement my status as the alpha-adventurer of the expedition. I took a breath, channeled my inner action hero, and launched myself off the ledge.

The moment I hit the surface, the laws of thermodynamics struck back. The water wasn't just cold; it was a liquid ice-pick that instantly vacuum-sealed my lungs. Every ounce of "cool" evaporated in a millisecond.

As the current began nudging me toward the edge of the falls, I produced a noise usually reserved for a cat being dunked in an ice bath. I scrambled for the rocks, limbs flailing like a panicked crab, desperate to escape the liquid nitrogen before I became a permanent part of the scenery at the bottom of the mountain.

I went in hoping to look like a mountain god; I left looking like a man who had just been electrocuted by a puddle at three thousand metres.

Memorable moments: The celestial body

Ally and I were married in the lush, sun-dappled gardens of a Cape Town hotel. It was a perfect day, captured for posterity by my wonderful step-dad, Mike. Mike isn't a professional videographer, but we knew his footage would be raw, intimate, and deeply personal.

We just didn’t realize it would also be a character study of a complete stranger.

As we watched the video back, we noticed a recurring theme. The camera would start on us—the happy couple, exchanging vows and radiant with love—and then, as if caught in an irresistible magnetic field, the lens would slowly, inexorably drift toward the hotel pool.

There, sprawled on a deck chair in the background, was a very, very large man in a very, small bathing suit.

He didn't just appear once. He was the unintended protagonist of our wedding. Every time the ceremony reached a peak of emotional intensity, the camera would pan away from my tearful "I do" to find him adjusting his sunglasses or contemplating a club sandwich. He had a gravitational pull so strong that even Mike’s best intentions couldn't escape his orbit.

I went into that day thinking I was the center of Ally’s universe; I left realizing we were both just minor satellites orbiting a man in a Speedo by the deep end.

Memorable moments: The corporate presentation

Ally—who was my partner of 17 years, had many talents. Timing, as it turns out, is one of them. She discovered it very early in life. 

Her parents had been locked in a grueling, weeks-long battle with her potty training. It was a saga of frustration, failed attempts, and a growing sense of desperation. Ally, sensing the tension, seemed determined to hold out until the stakes were as high as possible.

The opportunity finally arrived when her father hosted a prestigious dinner party for his business colleagues. The house was filled with the clinking of crystal, the smell of a fine roast, and the hushed tones of serious men discussing serious business. Ally had been tucked away in bed, or so they thought.

In the middle of a particularly refined conversation between her father and his boss, the lounge doors swung open.

There stood Ally, clad in her pajamas and radiating a sense of immense professional achievement. In her hands, she held her potty—which was currently occupied by a very successful "delivery."

She marched straight up to her father, hoisted the prize aloft for the boss to inspect, and announced with pure, unadulterated pride:

"Look, Daddy! I made a woofy in my potty!"

After many weeks of resistance, you have to admire the commitment. Ally didn’t just get potty trained. She made sure there was an audience to witness the milestone.

Memorable moments: The apology

In 1996, I flew to London to meet Ally—my girlfriend and future wife-to-be—who had been living and working there for a year while I remained back in Cape Town. The plan was simple: reunite, then head off travelling together.

This was, of course, a different world. A world before everyone carried a mobile phone in their pocket. Back then, communication relied heavily on those iconic red phone boxes scattered across London like little beacons of connection.

On one particular day, I decided to visit the Imperial War Museum while Ally finished work. We planned to meet later and begin our adventure.

At some point, I stepped into a phone box to give her a call.

I was mid-conversation—chatting away, probably discussing travel plans—when suddenly, without warning, I felt rough hands grab me and yank me out of the booth.

Before I knew it, I was pushed up against the glass exterior.

Two policemen.

Serious. Urgent.

“Who are you speaking to?!”

Now, it turns out that just a minute before I had stepped into that very phone box, someone had made a bomb threat from it.

And now here I was—freshly installed inside the crime scene—cheerfully calling my girlfriend.

Not ideal timing.

They questioned me, then spoke to Ally, who—thankfully—confirmed my entirely innocent, slightly bewildered story. Gradually, the tension eased. The grip loosened. The suspicion drained.

Eventually, they stepped back.

“You’re free to go,” one of them said.

Then, in a moment that could only happen in Britain, the same officer reached into his pocket, pressed a 20-pence piece into my palm, and offered a polite nod.

"Terribly sorry about that, sir," he said. "A small token of our apology so you can finish your call."

And just like that, I went from suspected terrorist to mildly inconvenienced customer—politely compensated and returned to the phone box.

Memorable moments: The three-syllable letdown

My friend Chrisel had just finished her wildlife guiding course in the Eastern Cape and was eager to put her new skills to the test. She knew my weakness: nothing gets my blood pumping like the big cats, especially the elusive, secretive leopard. A sighting is the holy grail of any safari.

We were scanning the bush in Addo Elephant National Park when Chrisel suddenly jolted in her seat.

"Leopard!" she barked.

A surge of pure, electric excitement crashed through me. My camera was ready, my heart was hammering against my ribs, and I was already scanning the golden shadows for a flick of a spotted tail. Then, after a perfectly timed, heart-stopping pause, she finished the sentence.

"...tortoise!"

My adrenaline didn't just drop; it evaporated. There it was: a leopard tortoise, ambling across the road with all the urgency of a Sunday afternoon nap. It was a perfectly handsome reptile, with a beautifully patterned shell that lived up to its name, but it lacked a certain... predatory menace.

I spent the next ten minutes staring at the shell, waiting for it to roar. It didn't, but I’m pretty sure I heard the tortoise laughing at me.

Memorable moments: The name exchange

What’s in a Name? Quite a Lot, Apparently

Ally, my wife-to-be, had the unfortunate surname “Hoar.”

Now, she was very keen to get married — and not just for the usual romantic reasons. You see, her full name was Ally Hoar… which, on formal envelopes, inevitably became:

A. Hoar

Yes. Exactly.

So when she accepted my proposal, I did find myself wondering — just quietly — whether it was my sparkling personality and devastating good looks that sealed the deal… or simply the chance to upgrade her surname.

I decided not to ask.

Things took an even more amusing turn when her dad remarried later in life. One couldn’t help but wonder if a similar question crossed his mind.

After all, his new wife’s name was…

Aisa Hoar.

No joke. Completely real.

Memorable moments: The ecstatic return

Every year, I’d travel back to South Africa for several weeks to visit family. During these trips, my dog, Mack, would stay with Liza, who shared "custody" of him with me. It was a perfect arrangement, but the separation always felt like a lifetime.

The absolute highlight of my return to Australia was the moment I walked through the door to be reunited with him. It was a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos.

There was frantic panting, heavy slobbering, and a series of high-pitched, desperate whines. There was uncontrolled jumping, a fair amount of spinning, and enough vigorous bum-shaking to power a small village. It was a display of emotional vulnerability that would have made a Zen master weep.

And honestly, once I calmed down and stopped licking his face, Mack seemed pretty excited to see me, too.

Memorable moments: The prestigious scavenger

My step-dad, Mike, was a devoted golfer and a long-standing member of an incredibly prestigious club—the kind of place where a crooked tie is a minor scandal. One afternoon, the Club President pulled him aside, looking deeply pained.

"Mike," he whispered, "several members have reported seeing you... sifting through the bins for discarded food. We’re concerned. Is everything alright at home? Do you need a—well, a small advance?"

Mike felt the eyes of the entire clubhouse on him. He looked sheepish, then cleared his throat.

"Everything’s fine," he explained. "I’ve started a worm farm for my garden, and it turns out they have a very refined palate for banana peels. I was just—well, I was just retrieving the leftovers."

The President stared at him, caught between relief and pure aristocratic confusion.

The President was relieved to hear Mike wasn't broke, though he did suggest that next time, Mike should try to look a little less "homeless" while catering for his compost.

Memorable moments: The fool and the four-legged master

For years, I’ve dedicated myself to a spiritual practice of mindfulness. My goal is simple: to walk in nature, stay grounded in my senses, and eventually become a sort of Zen master of the "Now."

A few years ago, I took my dog, Mack, for our usual route. Mack was in his element—trotting, sniffing every bush with surgical precision, and living entirely in the moment. I started with the best of intentions, but somewhere between the first tree and the third park bench, I got sucked into the vortex of my own head. I was drafting work emails, calculating my to-do list, and reliving old arguments.

Suddenly, I "woke up." I realized I’d been mentally absent for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t seen a single flower or felt the breeze; I had been a ghost in my own body.

I looked down at Mack, who was currently savoring the complex olfactory profile of a blade of grass, his tail wagging in pure, unadulterated presence. I was instantly reminded of The Fool from the Tarot deck—the wanderer stepping off a cliff while his dog yaps at his heels.

I realized then that I wasn’t the Zen master in this relationship. I was the Fool.

The real master was at the other end of the leash—and unlike me, he didn't need a book on mindfulness to enjoy the smell of a good bush.

Sheila's memorial

The family held their memorial for Sheila this weekend at Alphen Way. Lots of beautiful shared memories and tributes to a wonderful person and a life well lived. 

Jo's beautiful tribute

Sheila, this is for you — to honour your 92 years and the incredible life you lived before being reunited with your beloved Henk.

When I think of you, I think of all the small, meaningful things that made you so uniquely you. Your love of ironing, darning and mending, always taking such care with everything. The colourful bottles that stood in cheerful rows along your kitchen shelf, and the little treasures and teaspoons you collected on your travels — each one with a story.

Your home and garden were a reflection of you — warm, cared for, and full of pride. There was never a plate left in the sink, and everything had its place. And of course a “Sheila” salad was never complete without its signature touches: Little cubes of cheddar, chopped onion and sliced mushrooms.

I will think of the quiet, special moments too — how Sam would melt with contentment from your arm tickles in the back of the car, purring with happiness. How you were always on hand to look after her so I could get some sleep after Matt was born. How, on your walks together, you planted seeds of wonder and magic in her heart, filling her world with fairies and imagination.

It is about the family you loved cherished so deeply. How you loved Mathew with such pride, and how that same pride extended to each of your eight grandchildren. Not a single Sunday morning call with Antony passed without you asking about them — what they were doing, how they were, what little stories there were to share. You were always interested, always present.

It is about your love story with Henk — a love so deep and constant. You did everything side by side, a true partnership in every sense. Your strength during his illness and the fierce, protective love you showed him will never be forgotten.

Plett won’t feel the same without you and our family gatherings will always have a space where you should be — our matriarch, at the centre of it all.

It is about your spirit of adventure — your love of travel, of road trips in the Musso with Henk. Skydiving at 87 says everything about your bravery! How incredible it was for one last spin in the boat in Plett - the delight on your face is something I will never forget.

It is about the little things that made us smile — how you and Henk were always five minutes early to everything, how your cheeks would turn pink after a glass of wine, how you loved your pretty lights, sitting with your chair with your cross word puzzles, your weekly You adiction, your love of Binnelanders and the Grand Pree.

Your belly laugh when something tickled you! The incredible garden you created, drawing much admiration from all who walked past. How much you loved your tea and always had your cup and saucer ready at the kettle for the next brew.

You were beautiful, inside and out — you looked gorgeous wearing pinks and purples, never without your earrings and pearls. How you never missed your weekly hair appointment, and how, in all the years, not a single grey hair ever showed — always so perfectly, gracefully you.

But more than anything, we’ll remember your generosity and your love. How you spoiled us — at restaurants, at Christmas, on birthdays. Always thinking of others. And how no one ever left your house after a visit to Bloem without chocolates, Rolo’s, smarties and later on bags of Checkers mixed choccies to pass on to the other family members who could not have been there.

We will miss you deeply. But we will carry you with us — in the way we care for others, in the stories we tell, and in all the little things that will always remind us of you.

Camping at Bents Basis

A wonderful camping weekend with the boys. Bents Basin has the biggest water hole in NSW so the swimming was glorious. It rained hard during the night but I was all cosy in my spacious new tent.

Memorable moments: The bottle of justice

When I was seven, an operation left both my legs in heavy plaster casts. For six long weeks, I was confined to a wheelchair, which created a logistical problem: I couldn't make it to the school toilets. The solution was a medical bottle kept discretely by my side in class.

However, my teacher quickly found a secondary use for my recovery.

The moment that bottle hit the floor, she would scan the room like a hawk looking for prey. "Patrick, you haven’t done your homework," she’d bark. Or, "Nicky, stop talking!"

Then came the sentence: "Go to the toilet and empty the bottle!"

I would sit there in my casts as the "guilty" student trudged over, shot me a look of pure resentment, and marched my personal business down the hallway. I wasn't just a classmate anymore; I was a living, breathing punishment.

I went into that surgery hoping for a quick recovery; I left as the most effective deterrent in the history of primary education.

Memorable moments: The dentist's son

When I was six years old, I lived in constant fear of Mrs. Ford. She was a loud, formidable woman who taught the older children and was known for a lethal ear-pinch. So, when she burst into my classroom and barked, "I want Myburgh!" my life flashed before my eyes.

She grabbed my arm and marched me down the corridor. I was terrified. I ran through every possible sin I could have committed, bracing for the inevitable pinch.

Instead, she hauled me to the front of her class. Eighty older students stared as I studied my shoes in silent agony. Then came the command:

"Myburgh, open your mouth and show them your teeth!"

I obeyed. What else could I do?

"Students," she bellowed, "look at these teeth! These are the teeth of a dentist’s son. Look how they sparkle and shine! You, too, can have teeth like this if you look after them."

She dismissed me with a brisk "Thank you," and I bolted. I ran all the way back to my class, desperately wishing my father had a more discreet profession—like an engineer, a businessman, or a fireman.

I went in expecting a reprimand; I left as a human toothpaste commercial.

Memorable moments: The transcontinental commute

After six years in the UK, my brain was still commuting on the Northern Line while my body was standing at a station in Sydney.

I walked up to the window, weary from work, and asked for a ticket to North London.

The ticket-master froze. He looked at me, then his screen, then back at me with genuine concern. Finally, the penny dropped.

"You mean North Sydney, don’t you?"

"Ah," I stammered, my face turning a vibrant shade of commuter-red. "Yes. That would help."

He didn't miss a beat. As he printed the ticket, he leaned in with a grin.

"And will that be a window or an aisle seat for the journey?"

Memorable moments: The ballroom bone-breaker

When I joined the Ballroom Dancing Society at the University of Cape Town, I was the definition of a latecomer. The rest of the class already knew their quickstep from their tango, while I was just trying to look like I belonged in the room.

Our teacher, Maureen Shargey—a tiny, high-voltage live wire—announced that today’s menu featured "Rock n’ Roll Throws." She demonstrated a move that involved deep knee bends, a heavy lift, and a series of high-speed rotations.

"Find a partner!" she barked.

There was a stampede. When the dust settled, I was left standing with the only other person without a pair: a girl who was a solid six feet tall, big-boned, and built like a professional rugby lock. I looked at her, then at my own knees, and began a silent, frantic mantra: Bend at the knees. Bend at the knees.

Maureen gave the signal. I dove in, bent deep, and—to my absolute shock—managed a heroic lift. I swung her down toward my left leg.

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot in the hall. My leg went instantly numb. Oh God, I thought, I’ve snapped my femur. The bone is going to be sticking out. This is the end.

I dropped my partner, who went sliding across the polished floor like a human curling stone, and collapsed in a heap, clutching my thigh and bracing for the sight of a compound fracture. A worried crowd gathered. Maureen looked on in horror.

I gingerly reached into my pocket to assess the damage to my limb. My fingers found something jagged. I pulled it out and held it up for the room to see.

It wasn't my leg. It was my favorite plastic comb, snapped perfectly in two.

My dignity was in splinters, but at least I could still walk home.

Memorable moments: The human landmark

I was at the Nico Malan Theatre in Cape Town, enjoying a musical from my prized aisle seat. When the house lights came up for intermission, the usual stampede for the bar began.

A woman in my row, clearly in a hurry for her Chardonnay, managed to plant her heel firmly—and painfully—onto my foot as she pushed past. I braced for the apology, but she didn’t even break stride. She vanished into the lobby, leaving me nursing my dignity and a throbbing toe.

Twenty minutes later, the bells chimed and the audience filtered back in. I saw the woman returning, this time trailing her partner behind her. She stopped right in front of me and peered down.

"Did I step on your foot earlier?" she asked pointedly.

I straightened my posture, ready to graciously accept the long-awaited apology. "Yes," I said, offering a small, forgiving smile. "You did."

She didn't smile back. She didn't say sorry. Instead, she turned to her partner with a look of triumphant relief.

"See?" she announced. "This is the right row!"

Memorable moments: The Kleinmond interruption

I met my future wife to be, Ally, in the tiny village of Kleinmond, two hours outside of Cape Town. We were camped on opposite sides of a rusty old fence, but by the final night, the "spark" between us was undeniable—aided, in no small part, by the generous flow of alcohol around the communal braai.

Ally was playful. She spontaneously bit my earlobe, and when I warned her of the "consequences," she promptly did it again. I moved in for the clinch.

Now, I consider myself a very capable kisser. I was fully prepared for Ally to swoon, to be consumed by the moment, and to forget the rest of the world existed. For a few seconds, it seemed to be working perfectly.

Then, without warning, she detached herself from my embrace. She didn't look at me. Instead, she leaned toward her friend sitting a few feet away.

"Colleen," she announced firmly, "I must butt in and disagree with what you’ve been saying. I think that..."

I stood there, mid-clinch, abandoned for a theological or political debate I hadn't even realized was happening. My confidence didn't just take a hit; it did a backflip into the campfire.

Ally eventually blamed the alcohol, and I eventually forgave the rebuttal. We went on to spend 17 wonderful years together, but I made sure to check for nearby debates before every kiss from then on.

Memorable moments: The remote betrayal

During my university years, my Cape Town housemate Oliver and I shared Willow Road with Andre. To us, Andre was ancient—at least thirty-five—and he spent his post-divorce life cycling through girlfriends with the speed of a professional sprinter. He was determined to be the one doing the dumping, often juggling three oblivious women at once.

Naturally, Oliver (a serial prankster) and I decided it was time to humble him.

Oliver told Andre he’d acquired a "juicy" adult video that had to be seen to be believed. Andre, ever the connoisseur, was immediately intrigued. Oliver started the film, handed Andre the remote, and gave a stern warning: "Don't fast-forward, or you'll miss the best part."

Oliver then "slipped away" to the bathroom, and I retreated to the kitchen to "make coffee."

Right on cue, Oliver’s sister and her friend used a spare key to barge into the lounge. Panic-stricken, Andre hammered the "Stop" button. Nothing happened. He hammered it again. Still nothing. We had, of course, removed the batteries.

In a desperate, last-ditch effort to save his reputation, Andre launched himself over the coffee table like a heat-seeking missile. That is exactly how the girls found him: sprawled on his stomach, frantically stabbing at the TV’s manual buttons, while a symphony of very loud, very explicit "adult antics" played out directly above his head.

Andre may have been a master at juggling girlfriends, but he was no match for a TV that refused to take orders.

Memorable moments: The midnight hero of Willow Road

Life at my house on Willow Road was rarely quiet, but one night, the silence was shattered by a series of high-pitched, blood-curdling female screams.

Convinced a violent crime was unfolding right on our doorstep, my "hero" instincts kicked into overdrive. I bolted from my bed and sprinted down the corridor, fueled by pure adrenaline. I burst through the front door and into the night air, ready to confront the attacker—only to realize two things simultaneously:

First, the "victim" wasn’t being attacked; she was in Andre’s outside room, and she was having a spectacularly good time.

Second, in my rush to save a life, I had completely forgotten to put on any clothes.

I retreated in a state of naked humiliation, but the vocal performance continued in an impressive ebb and flow well into the early morning. I eventually managed to fall asleep, though my "heroic" ego was severely bruised.

The next morning, Andre sauntered into the kitchen with the grin of a man who had won the lottery.

"My god, Graeme," he beamed. "I’ve found the girl for you! We met at a bar and had some great fun last night, but I’m moving on today. I’ll put in a good word; you’ll stand a very good chance."

I looked at him, my midnight sprint still fresh in my mind. "No thanks," I said firmly. "First of all, I don’t want to catch anything. Second, I like to get to know a girl before I shag her. And thirdly... what if she doesn't scream for me?"

I think I’ll stick to saving people who actually want to be rescued—and preferably while wearing trousers.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road welcome

When Oliver moved into my home at Willow Road in Cape Town, I was on high alert. He was a friend’s brother and a notorious prankster, so I knew I had to establish dominance early. I helped him settle in, offered a warm welcome, and retreated to my room with a simple: "Shout if you need anything."

Half an hour later, there was a frantic knock on my door. Oliver looked genuinely shaken. "Oh my God," he stammered, "there is a huge spider in the bathroom!"

I followed him in, bracing myself. I’ve lived in Cape Town a long time, but I have never seen a spider like this. It was massive—easily the size of a small rat—clinging to the wall like it owned the mortgage.

My internal instinct was to scream and move to a different continent, but I managed to keep my face completely deadpan. I looked at the beast, then back at Oliver with a shrug.

"Oh, Oliver," I said casually, "that’s actually a really small one for this house. We tend to leave the little ones be. But look, if you see its daddy, let me know and I’ll help you move it."

The look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face was the greatest housewarming gift I could have asked for.

Memorable moments: The nightmare cure

In 2012, I decided to push myself well beyond my comfort zone by attending a Human Awareness Institute workshop—a weekend dedicated to intimacy, openness, and radical honesty. By the second day, the "radical" part truly kicked in: the facilitators invited everyone to shed their clothes and spend the rest of the retreat in the nude.

To my surprise, once the initial shock wore off, it felt remarkably natural. But as the workshop drew to a close, a familiar shadow loomed.

Since I was a child, I’ve had a recurring nightmare. I’m standing on a stage, giving a presentation to a large crowd, when I suddenly realize—to my absolute horror and humiliation—that I am completely naked.

I realized this was my moment. I could either hide in the back or face the beast.

I walked to the front of the room and stood, entirely exposed, before eighty people. I remembered my mother’s old trick for public speaking nerves: "If you’re anxious, just imagine the audience is naked."

I looked out at the room and realized with a grin: I didn't have to imagine.

I shared my story, the shame evaporated, and I walked off that stage a free man. It was the most successful presentation of my life—though I still wouldn’t recommend the dress code for a board meeting at Old Mutual.

Memorable moments: The mile-high monologue

On a long-haul flight from Sydney to Cape Town, I settled in for some spiritual growth. I’d recently bought a book by an author I admire and was tucked into a middle seat, ready to dive deep into the text on my Kindle.

I hit the power button.

Immediately, a loud, authoritative, and terrifyingly clear robotic voice—not unlike the one used by David Hawkins—bellowed from the device:

"THE ENLIGHTENED SEX MANUAL—BY DAVID DEIDA—PAGE FOUR."

Somehow, the text-to-speech mode had been triggered. In the sudden silence of the cabin, it sounded less like a private reading and more like a public service announcement for the entire row.

I fumbled madly, my fingers turning into useless sausages as I clawed at the screen, desperate to kill the power before the "Enlightened" details of page five began broadcasting to my captive neighbors.

I went into that flight looking for spiritual transcendence; I left it wishing for physical disappearance.

Memorable moments: A paste-y complexion

After a lifetime of skin neglect, I decided it was time to embrace a "new me." I bought a haul of all-natural products and committed to a daily moisturizing regimen. Being a beginner, I figured more was better.

Early one morning, still navigating the bathroom in a sleep-deprived fog, I squeezed out a heroic amount of cream and began vigorously massaging it into my face. I rubbed and I waited for the "glow."

When I finally looked in the mirror, I didn't see a rejuvenated man. I saw a frightful, opaque sea of white. My face looked less like it had been moisturized and more like it had been professionally plastered.

I squinted at the tube on the counter. It wasn't the high-end botanical lotion. It was the brand-new, all-natural toothpaste I’d bought the day before.

I may still have the wrinkles, but at least my forehead is now 99% protected against cavities.

Memorable moments: The searing truth

I had just finished scrubbing my balcony with a cleaning agent so potent it probably required a permit. Naturally, when my housemate Sharmista mentioned she’d left a bowl of popcorn for me in the kitchen, I dove in with both hands—completely forgetting to wash them first.

One handful later, my mouth was an inferno.

A searing, localized burn spread across my tongue. My heart hammered. I’ve done it, I thought. I’ve seasoned my snack with industrial toxins. I bolted for the bathroom, frantically rinsing my mouth over and over, bracing for the inevitable call to Poison Control and a very embarrassing hospital admission.

Eventually, the "chemical" fire subsided. I crawled into bed, relieved to have survived my own negligence, though certain I’d scorched my internal organs.

The next morning, I bumped into Sharmista in the kitchen.

"Did you enjoy the chili popcorn I made?" she asked with a grin. "That spice really gives it a kick, doesn't it?"

Memorable moments: The day the lightbulb went on

As a kid, I made a life-changing discovery: I could scale the great tree in our garden. I was obsessed. For a solid week, I spent every spare hour perched in the branches, a miniature king surveying the world below from my secret leafy fortress.

Then came the day I returned from school to a scene of devastation.

The tree was gone. My father stood there with a chainsaw, and my kingdom lay in a million splintered pieces. I was heartbroken. For years, I nursed a quiet, righteous "peevement" against him for destroying my favorite sanctuary without so much as a warning.

Then, I hit a certain age.

I looked back at the layout of the old garden and realized exactly where that tree had been located: directly level with my parents' bedroom window.

Suddenly, my father’s urgency with the power tools made perfect sense. Every married couple deserves their privacy—and no father wants his son accidentally becoming the world’s most innocent voyeur.

Memorable moments: The pocket saboteur

I headed to the Apple Store with my MacBook Pro to solve a nagging technical glitch—the kind that makes you feel like an expert just for booking the appointment. I stood before the "Genius," ready to demonstrate the issue, only to hit a literal wall.

The trackpad was dead. The cursor wouldn't budge. I couldn't even log in.

The Genius was stymied. We tried every reset, every key command, and every diagnostic trick in the book. For twenty minutes, we stared at a frozen screen in a state of high-tech consternation. The mystery was absolute.

Then, my hand brushed against my trousers.

I felt a familiar, rounded bulge in my pocket. A memory flickered: “Oh yes, I brought my Bluetooth Apple Mouse.”

I reached in and pulled it out. Not only was it in my pocket, it was switched on. My thigh had been "clicking" and "scrolling" the entire time, effectively hijacking the computer and locking out the trackpad.

I looked at the mouse. I looked at the Genius. The "problem" was solved, but my dignity was officially beyond repair.

Memorable moments: My short-lived career as a wedding photographer

When my housemates, Sue and Alex, decided to get married at dawn on Balmoral Beach, they asked me to be the photographer. It was my first wedding gig—and, as it turned out, my last.

The conditions were a photographer's dream and a technical nightmare: rising sun, Sydney harbor mist, and a touch of atmospheric smoke. I spent the next day meticulously editing, thrilled with the results. The light was ethereal; the couple looked iconic.

Sue was buzzing with anticipation. When I finally sent her the link, she vanished into her room to savor them.

Then came the silence.

Ten minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. My "inner critic" went from a whisper to a scream. She hates them. The focus is off. I’ve ruined their memories.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to knock. I found Sue looking absolutely miserable.

"Sue," I stammered, "are the photos okay?"

"Oh, Graeme," she wailed, "I look so fat in these!"

I stared at her for a beat. "Sue... you’re eight months pregnant."

Apparently, even "golden hour" magic has its limits. I hung up my camera lens that day and haven't shot a wedding since.

Memorable moments: The most electric kiss of my life

While visiting family in Cape Town, I headed out to the countryside for a weekend with old friends. We spotted a beautiful horse standing by a fence, and being a lifelong fan, I decided it was time for a proper introduction.

I have a foolproof trick for bonding with horses: you lean in close and breathe deeply through your nose near theirs. It’s supposed to build instant intimacy and put the animal at ease.

I leaned over the wire, eyes locked with my new equine friend, and prepared for our "moment."

The second my lips brushed the wire, the world exploded.

The next thing I knew, I was flat on my back in the dirt, staring at the African sky. It turns out the fence was electrified.

I’ve had some memorable first dates, but that was easily the most "electric" kiss of my life. The horse, for the record, seemed entirely unimpressed.

Memorable moments: The lift fiasco

Fresh out of university and armed with a brand-new suit and a "Trainee Marketing Consultant" title, I arrived for my first day at Old Mutual. I was a ball of nerves, ready to conquer the corporate world—or at least find the reception desk.

I stepped into the lift and pressed '1'. The car hummed upward and came to a smooth halt.

The doors didn't budge.

Panic set in immediately. Stuck. On my first day. I’m going to be late. I’m going to die in a life assurance building before my policy even kicks in. I began frantically eyeing the alarm button, bracing for a morning of claustrophobic humiliation.

Then, a calm voice drifted in from behind me.

"Can we help you?"

I spun around. It turns out the lift had doors on both sides. The "wall" behind me had slid open seconds ago, revealing the entire office—who were now silently enjoying the view of a terrified trainee staring intensely at a solid metal panel.

Needless to say, I made quite an entrance.

Memorable moments: Waverton to Cremorne via the scenic route from hell

There I was, gliding from Waverton toward Cremorne on a Lime e-bike like a silent, motorized god of the asphalt. I had a date with a cinema screen and the smug satisfaction of someone who wouldn't have to find parking. But then, I hit the invisible border of Mosman.

Suddenly, my high-tech steed didn’t just slow down; it went on strike. I glanced at my phone, expecting a low-battery warning, only to be greeted by a digital shrug: "E-bikes are prohibited in Mosman. Also, you cannot park here." The logic was staggering. I couldn’t ride it, but I couldn’t leave it. It had become a 25 kg paperweight that I was now legally obligated to escort. I spent the next kilometer performing a very sweaty, very loud "walk of shame" across the suburb, providing the local residents with a comprehensive masterclass in creative swearing. Why the GPS waited until I was deep in the "Forbidden Zone" to shut down is a mystery known only to God and cruel software engineers. By the time the motor finally hummed back to life, I’d missed the trailers, the opening scene, and any shred of my dignity.

Memorable moments: Dessert heaven

While living in London, my wife, Ally, invited me to a social work function, and while the networking was fine, the dessert spread was magnificent. I found myself drawn back to the buffet table like a moth to a very sugary flame.

Eventually, Ally caught up with me, looking more than a little irritated.

"Don't you feel embarrassed?" she whispered, eyeing my latest haul. "That’s the fifth plate of dessert you’ve gone up for!"

I didn't miss a beat. I gave her my most charming, sugar-dusted grin.

"Not at all," I replied. "Every time I go up, I just tell them it’s for you."

Marketing gone too far

While driving home with Ally when we lived in Cambridge, she held out a bottle and said with genuine enthusiasm, "Mmmm. Try this!"

I was focused on the road, thirsty, and caught the words "Sugar Vanilla Nectarine" in my peripheral vision. Naturally, I took a greedy, unsuspecting gulp.

"No! No!" Ally shrieked. "I meant smell it!"

"Too late," I replied, though the words were somewhat muffled by the thick, Mediterranean-scented bath bubbles beginning to foam from my mouth.

It was not a pleasant culinary experience. My breath has never been more "calming," but I am seriously considering suing Boots for deceptive packaging.

I didn't get the refreshing snack I was promised, but on the bright side, every time I hiccuped for the next three hours, I blew a perfectly formed, vanilla-scented bubble.

Memorable moments: A lesson in interspecies etiquette

At the London Zoo, I decided to test my "horse-whispering" skills on a llama. I’d always found that a gentle, deep breath near a horse's nose was the ultimate ice-breaker—a way to build instant intimacy and trust.

I leaned in, eyes locked with the llama’s, and channeled all the calm, spiritual goodwill I could muster. I prepared for a moment of profound interspecies connection.

The llama, however, had a different communication style.

Before I could even finish my first "peace-offering" exhale, it launched a high-velocity, impeccably aimed spray of spit directly into my face.

As I stood there, stunned and dripping, a childhood memory flickered into view: a scene from Tintin where the exact same thing happens to a furious Captain Haddock. I’d read the warnings decades ago, but clearly, I’d forgotten the most important rule of the Andes.

Darlinghurst Gaol and art exhibition

A fantastic morning exploring the old Darlinghurst Gaol with the Photography Meetup group. It is now a vibrant art school and there was a wonderful art exhibit on at the school which I also really enjoyed.  Then a stroll to the Lord Roberts pub for a delicious lunch of grain salad.

King's Cross

Darlinghurst Gaol

Darlinghurst Gaol operated as one of the colony’s principal prisons from 1841 until its closure in 1914. Designed by colonial architect Mortimer Lewis, the gaol was constructed primarily by convict labour using locally quarried sandstone, giving it the austere, fortress-like appearance that still defines the site today. At its peak, it held a wide range of inmates—from petty offenders to some of the colony’s most notorious criminals—and reflected the harsh penal philosophy of the time. Public executions were carried out at the gaol until 1855, after which hangings took place within its walls, underscoring its role as a central institution of colonial justice and punishment.

Conditions inside Darlinghurst Gaol were notoriously severe, especially in its early years, with overcrowding, poor sanitation, and strict discipline forming part of daily life. The prison underwent several reforms in the late 19th century as attitudes toward incarceration slowly shifted, including improved classification of prisoners and modest changes to living conditions. After its closure, the site took on a very different identity: the buildings were repurposed and eventually became home to the National Art School. Today, the former gaol stands as a striking example of Sydney’s colonial past—its heavy stone walls and preserved structures offering a powerful contrast between a history of confinement and its current role as a place of creativity and artistic expression.

Art exhibition at the art school

The exhibition SEARCHERS at the National Art School brings together over thirty Australian artists to explore the evolution of spray paint from an underground graffiti tool to a powerful medium within contemporary art. Showcasing both street-based practitioners and established artists, the exhibition highlights themes of identity, rebellion, and visibility, while examining the tension between graffiti’s raw, anonymous origins and its growing acceptance within institutional spaces.

Darlinghurst

Walk to Town Hall station