Stories from my life

"A human being is nothing but a story with skin around it."  Fred Allen

I've been having so much fun remembering and writing the stories from my life and some of the stories of the people I love.  Lots more stories to come. When my memory gets going, there seems to be an endless supply!

All the stories

• All the stories

Stories by theme

• Funny
• Embarrassing
• Inspiring
• Insights
• Disgusting
• School
• Teachers
• University
• Work
• Travel
• Pets
• Romance
• Sex
• Medical
• Pranks

Stories by life stage

• Childhood
• School years
• University years
• Old Mutual years
• Life at Willow Road
• London years
• Cambridge years
• Life at King Street

People involved

• Family
• Mum
• Mike
• Dad
• Jo
• Gran
• Gramps
• Granny & Grandpa
• Mack
• Friends
• Russell
• Ivor
• Housemates

Memorable moments: The falling forward pace

I have always loved to walk. Whether it’s a rugged trek through the wilderness or a long, exhilarating urban hike through the city, walking is my primary mode of engagement with the world. However, I often hear a familiar refrain from my companions: "Graeme, you walk so fast! I can't keep up."

The reason for my unrelenting pace can be traced back to my childhood and a man who, at least to my young eyes, seemed ancient and quite a slow mover. That was, until he started walking.

My Grandpa lived about five kilometers from our house in a flat by the Rondebosch station. He would regularly make the trip on foot to Bertram Crescent to pick up my sister, Jo, and me. He’d then walk us through the park back to his place.

Gramps had a very specific, slightly ungainly gait. It was a "falling forward" style of movement—a rhythmic, high-speed stumble that he somehow converted into pure velocity. As soon as he set off, he would fly. Jo and I would practically have to jog at his heels just to stay in his orbit. This pace was even more pronounced during our regular excursions to Muizenberg Beach. We would fly along the sand in that same desperate, joyful pursuit, my small legs working double-time to match his momentum.

I loved the challenge of it. But more than that, I loved the reward.

The absolute highlight of these expeditions was the Appletiser. My mum would always pack one in my bag for the journey. In the hierarchy of childhood treats, Appletiser was the "champagne of apple juices." Its sophisticated fizz made it my favorite drink in the world, a luxury reserved only for the most special occasions.

Sitting there, catching my breath and sipping that fizzy gold after a high-speed trek with Gramps, is one of my most vivid memories.

I realize now that my "fast-walking" isn't just a physical habit; it’s a piece of Lambert that I still carry with me. Every time I outpace a fellow hiker or fly through a city street, I’m back on that beach or in that park, an Appletiser waiting in my bag, forever trying to keep up with the man who taught me that the best way to move through the world is to fall forward into it with everything you've got.

Memorable moments: The Tel Aviv revelation

I have spent much of my life accompanied by a quiet, persistent shadow: Imposter Syndrome. Even when I was at the top of my class at school, I dismissed it as a lack of innate ability; I convinced myself I was simply working harder than the other kids. The anxiety was a constant hum during exams—the terrifying certainty that this was the time I’d finally bomb out and be "found out."

This pattern followed me into my professional life. At Old Mutual, I was singled out as a high-potential trainee, yet I waited daily for the mask to slip. By 2001, I was in the UK, working for a renowned branding agency with a vibrant culture and iconic clients. Despite excellent feedback, the syndrome was stronger than ever. Branding wasn't my specialty, and I felt like a guest who had snuck into a high-society party.

Then came the Israeli bank project.

Our team of three—including the Managing Director and our colleague Anita—flew from London to Tel Aviv every week. The MD was a powerhouse, a charismatic genius who had single-handedly formulated the brand identities for some of the world’s most iconic companies, including Apple. Watching him work was like watching a master conductor; I was in absolute awe of his confidence.

One night, after a long day of strategy, the three of us met in a hotel bar in Tel Aviv. After a few drinks, I finally confessed my admiration. I told the MD how much I respected his genius and, more than anything, his unshakable confidence.

He looked at me and said something that shifted my entire world view.

"You know," he said quietly, "I have a huge imposter syndrome. Every time I stand up in front of a board, I feel totally nervous. I think, 'Oh no, they’re going to find me out this time.'"

I was stunned. If the man who branded Apple felt like a fraud, what hope was there for us mere mortals?

It was a moment of profound self-compassion. I realized then that Imposter Syndrome isn't a sign of inadequacy; it’s a nearly universal human experience. It might even be the very thing that makes us a driven species. It’s the friction that motivates us to be better, to prepare more deeply, and to reach further.

The goal isn't to kill the imposter; it's to understand him, be kind to him, and then—like the MD in Tel Aviv—stand up in front of the board anyway.

Memorable moments: The vulture and the rookie

During my final years of school, I developed a consuming passion for bird watching. It was ignited by my close friend Tony Verboom, an expert birder who introduced me to the gritty reality of the craft. We spent our mornings at Rietvlei, crawling on our bellies through knee-deep mud, getting thoroughly filthy in pursuit of "lesser-spotted thing-a-me-bobs." I loved every second of it—especially the moment a magnificent Osprey banked over our heads, sealing my fate as a "twitcher."

From then on, I lived and breathed birds, cycling to local wetlands every weekend to increase my "life list."

Shortly after I started, while I was still very much a novice, Tony and I spotted a large bird drifting in the distant Cape sky. Tony gasped in genuine shock. "My God, it’s a Cape Vulture!" He was ecstatic; Cape Vultures hadn't been recorded in the Peninsula for sixty years. Tony was so convinced that he wrote a formal report for the Cape Bird Club newsletter.

When the article was published, I saw my name in print for the first time: Verified by Tony Verboom and fellow spotter, Graeme Myburgh. I felt a wave of hot embarrassment. I was a beginner; I just hoped the veteran birders wouldn't realize that my "verification" carried about as much weight as a sparrow’s feather. I lived in fear of blowing Tony’s credibility.

The moment of truth came during a Bird Club weekend trip to Swellendam. Tony couldn't make it, so I carpooled with the Chairman of the club, a friendly, high-level expert named Jan. As we drove, Jan mentioned the newsletter. "Extraordinary sighting, that vulture," he said. I nodded, trying to look like a man who knew his raptors.

I was obsessed with seeing a Black Harrier on that trip. I had them on the brain. Suddenly, I saw a large, black-and-white shape perched on a power line.

"Oh my God, stop!" I cried. "Black Harrier!"

Jan slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, dust billowing around us. He leaned out, binoculars raised, squinting at the bird. He looked confused, then slowly turned to me.

"Graeme," he said gently, "that’s a Pied Crow."

It was one of the most common birds in the Western Cape. Even a rank amateur knows a crow from a harrier, but my wishful thinking had performed a mid-air transformation. I sat there in the settling dust, mortified. I was certain I had just blown the credibility of Tony’s legendary vulture sighting to smithereens in a single, caffeinated outburst.

Thankfully, Jan was a man of immense patience and quiet grace. He didn't mock me or question the vulture article; he simply shifted back into gear and drove on. We had a marvelous weekend of birding, and while the Black Harrier never made an appearance, I learned a vital lesson: in the bush, as in life, you have to see what’s actually there, not just what you’re desperate to find.

Attention is love

In many ways, Gran and Gramps could not have been more different. To my young eyes, Gramps was the undisputed hero—an extroverted, charismatic powerhouse who had been a respected amateur actor in his youth. He was the man who held sway as the MC at the annual bowls club, a storyteller who lived for the spotlight and the punchline. He was physically effusive, showering us with praise and affection. As a shy, introverted boy, I idolized him. I wanted to be that eloquent, that funny, and that confident.

In many ways, I took on his mantle. I found myself in school plays, losing myself in roles, and eventually becoming a skilled public speaker—though, unlike Gramps, my "performance" always came with a side of anxiety. I learned from him how to express admiration and how to hold a room with a well-timed story.

Gran, however, was the steady, background presence. She was never the center of attention and far less demonstrative with her affection. But if you got her into a one-on-one conversation, the world shifted.

Gran was an incredible listener. She didn't just hear you; she held what you said. She had a memory like a carefully curated archive; if you mentioned a small detail in passing, months later she would present you with a newspaper clipping perfectly relevant to that thought. Her love wasn't a loud performance; it was a quiet, non-judgmental space.

I’ve realized as I’ve grown older that love, in its purest form, is exactly that: spacious, affirming, and attentive. Attention is love.

While I idolized the "Toucher Tony" version of life when I was young, my appreciation for Gran has grown until she stands as a role model equal to Gramps. She is the bar I set for my own relationships. If I can show a genuine, loving interest in others the way she did, I know I’m offering something truly special.

I was remarkably lucky to have them both. They represent the two halves of my personality: the part of me that wants to tell a great story to a crowd, and the part of me that knows the most important thing I can ever give someone is my undivided, loving attention.

Memorable moments: The sexy beast of Old Mutual

One morning, I walked through the Old Mutual marketing floor on the way to my desk, sensing a shift in the atmospheric pressure. As I moved past the cubicles, I noticed a series of amused, knowing smiles from colleagues, as if the entire floor was in on a secret I hadn't been invited to.

I wondered if I was imagining things until I passed David from Agency Marketing. He gave me a supportive nod and a wink.

"You go, stud," he chirped. "We're all rooting for you."

I reached my desk, confused and increasingly wary. Sitting there, face-up for the world to see, was a thermal-paper fax. It didn't contain a marketing brief or a strategy update. Instead, it was a bold, typed declaration:

"I can't wait to get my hands on you later, you sexy beast."

It was from Ally. In an era before private messaging, she had mistakenly assumed that the office fax machine was a private, direct line to my desk. Instead, it had spent the morning sitting in the communal tray, being enjoyed by every "gregarious" marketer and agency staffer who had wandered by to collect their own documents.

In that single moment, I discovered a profound new psychological state: the ability for immense pride and agonizing embarrassment to coexist in the exact same heartbeat.

I walked in a "high-potential trainee" and left the "Marketing Stud" of the building. It turns out, no matter how hard you work on your professional brand, all it takes is one misplaced fax to permanently rebrand you as a "Sexy Beast."

Memorable moment: Toucher Tony

Later in life, well after Gran and Gramps had emigrated from the UK to Cape Town to be with us, Gramps took up bowls. It wasn't just a hobby; he had found his true calling. While Gran played and enjoyed the social aspect, for Gramps, the green was sacred ground.

He was famously gregarious, a frustrated actor at heart who finally found his stage. Every year at the Annual Bowls Christmas party, he would hold sway as the MC, regaling the club with stories and jokes he had meticulously collected throughout the year. He was the lifeblood of the club, a man whose energy and humor could turn a simple game into a theatrical performance.

Gramps even had a specific, cinematic dream for how his life would conclude. In his mind’s eye, he would sidle up to the edge of the green, supported by his zimmerframe. He would take aim, throw his final "wood," and as it rolled toward the jack, he would suffer a swift, painless heart attack. As the world faded to black, the last sound he would hear—the ultimate validation of a life well-played—would be the cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher! Well done!"

In the physical world, reality was less poetic. Peripheral neuropathy eventually claimed the strength in his legs, forcing him to give up his beloved sport. He spent his final year in a care home, passing away exactly one year after his "darling" had come to get him.

But in my mind, the physical ending doesn't count. When I think of him now, I see him on a super-vivid, ethereal celestial bowling green. He isn't hobbling; he is galloping along with vital abandon, throwing his woods with perfect precision. Gran is there, watching with that sixty-year-old look of love, the clubmates are roaring at his latest story, and the air is filled with the constant, triumphant cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher!"

Memorable moments: The lassies of Kathmandu

In 2023, I set off for Nepal with a group of friends, including Russell, to tackle the trek to Everest Base Camp. Before we hit the trail, we spent several days in Kathmandu, where I quickly discovered a local obsession. In the central square, they served the most incredible lassis—the traditional chilled yoghurt drinks, thick with flavor and topped with a generous dusting of nuts and currants.

They were delicious, refreshing, and—dangerously for me—incredibly cheap. I became a regular. In one particularly enthusiastic sitting, I managed to put away four of them in a row.

After the trek, we went our separate ways. I returned to the familiar "blue-dot" navigation of Sydney, while Russell flew back to Cape Town. Being a good friend, he met up with my family to give them a firsthand account of our Himalayan adventures.

My niece, Samantha, who was in her early twenties, was listening intently as Russell regaled them with stories of the mountains. But then, the conversation took a turn for the surreal.

"Wow," Russell said, shaking his head in fond remembrance. "Graeme sure did love the lassies in Kathmandu. On one morning alone, I saw him pay for four of them."

A heavy, awkward silence descended over the room. Samantha looked visibly shocked, shifting in her seat with a face full of genuine discomfort. My sister, sensing the sudden shift in atmospheric pressure, leaned in.

"What’s the matter, sweetie?" she asked.

Samantha didn't hold back. "Well," she stammered, "I just don't think Russell should be sitting here talking about Uncle Graeme’s predilection for Nepalese prostitutes or his sex life!"

It took a few moments of frantic back-pedaling for Russell to explain that the only thing I was "consorting" with in the central square was a blend of fermented dairy, sugar, and dried fruit. I realized then that while I was busy enjoying a harmless local delicacy, my reputation back in Cape Town was being accidentally dismantled by a missing 'i' and a very imaginative niece.

Memorable moments: The toothbrush technician

In 2023, I set off for Nepal to trek to Everest Base Camp. In preparation, I’d invested in a pair of incredibly expensive, top-of-the-line hiking boots, renowned for their "waterproof" nature. As it turned out, in the extreme, muddy conditions of the Himalayas, "waterproof" simply meant "doesn't let a single drop of sweat or rainwater out." My feet were a squelchy mess for most of the trek, but the boots were comfortable and sturdy—a solid investment for a man who spends his weekends dodging bull ants in Berowra.

I stayed in Kathmandu a few days longer than the rest of my group, giving my boots a cursory clean before flying back to Australia. It wasn't until I was filling out my arrival card on the plane that the gravity of the situation hit me.

Australian Border Force is legendary for its biosecurity rigor. The questions on the arrival card that they use for screening are pointed: Have you been hiking? Is there mud on your shoes? I suddenly had a vivid, terrifying memory of my friend Gavin telling me his boots had been confiscated and permanently destroyed because of a single stray clump of foreign soil.

Panic set in.

As soon as I cleared the initial gates and reclaimed my bag in the arrivals hall, I made a beeline for the nearest restroom. I hauled my luggage into a tiny toilet cubicle and locked the door. I retrieved my boots, my toothbrush, and prepared for battle.

I spent the next hour in a state of frantic, meticulous labor. Using the water from the toilet bowl and my own toothbrush as a scouring tool, I scrubbed every lug, every lace-hole, and every millimeter of the soles. Between the vigorous scrubbing sounds, the splashing, and my own rhythmic muttering and swearing, I can only imagine what the people in the adjacent stalls thought was happening in my cubicle. It must have sounded like I was performing a very aggressive, very watery exorcism.

By the time I was finished, the boots were in a state of cleanliness an army sergeant would have admired. They were glowing. I packed them away, straightened my clothes, and joined the biosecurity queue.

The officer looked at my card, then at me. He was clearly in a risk-averse mood. "It says here you've been hiking," he noted, "but you’ve marked that your boots are clean?"

"Yes," I replied, my chest swelling with pride. I was ready to whip them out and dazzle him with my handiwork. I wanted the "all-clear" to be a standing ovation for my efforts.

He didn't even ask to see them. He just nodded, stamped my card, and said, "Good. You can go through."

Memorable moments: The snail sabotage

During my first year at the University of Cape Town, I studied Botany and Zoology—a curriculum that required a fairly high tolerance for the internal workings of the animal kingdom. I remember one particularly humid afternoon in the lab; the entire class was hunched over workstations, each of us staring down a snail soaking in preserving liquid.

The task was daunting: we were expected to dissect and draw the snail's reproductive organs.

It was an exercise in extreme patience. To the naked eye, a snail is a simple creature, but once you get under the shell, it’s a labyrinth. It felt like we were untangling miles of incredibly fine, intricate tubing. The atmosphere in the lab was thick with the smell of formaldehyde and the sound of forty students holding their breath.

My classmate, Mark, was not having a good day. Mark didn't enjoy the clinical nature of dissection at the best of times, and the gastropod's "intricate tubing" was pushing him to the edge of his sanity. I could see the frustration radiating off him—the white knuckles, the furrowed brow, the mounting, silent rage.

Suddenly, the silence of the lab was shattered.

"Fuck this!" Mark roared.

Before anyone could react, he brought his fist down with the force of a sledgehammer, squarely onto his specimen. The snail didn't just break; it exploded into a thousand tiny, preserved fragments across his desk.

Without a second glance at the wreckage, Mark stood up, shouldered his bag, and looked straight at the professor. "Prof," he said, his voice trembling with a strange mix of fury and liberation, "give me zero for this. I just don't care right now."

He turned and walked out of the lab, leaving the rest of us sitting in stunned silence, still clutching our scalpels and trying to find the beginning of a mile of tubing.

Memorable moments: The crown jewel crisis

Back in 2014, I joined a Meetup hike in Berowra—a rugged stretch of bushland just north of Sydney that looks peaceful until it isn’t.

In a moment of questionable judgment, I wore open shoes.

About halfway up a steep climb, I suddenly felt a hot, searing stab in the side of my foot—as if someone had driven a red-hot needle straight into it. I looked down and found the culprit: an enormous bull ant, radiating menace and what I can only assume was quiet satisfaction.

The pain was so intense that I briefly began planning my medical future.

Thinking practically (or so I believed), I killed the ant, wrapped it in a hanky, and put it in my pocket—just in case I needed to show a doctor what had nearly ended me.

Fifteen minutes later, now descending the hill and feeling rather pleased with my resilience, I experienced a second, even more alarming sensation.

A hot. Sharp. Stabbing pain.

This time… uncomfortably close to my groin.

There is a very particular kind of panic reserved for moments like this.

It turns out the bull ant had not, in fact, been as deceased as I had confidently assumed.

I learned two very important lessons about Australian bush survival that day.

Firstly, in a land of giant bull ants, open shoes are not so much footwear as an invitation.

Secondly—and this is critical—if you put a bull ant in your pocket near your crown jewels, you must be absolutely certain it is dead.

Memorable moments: The woolly riot

In 1997, I spent a month backpacking around the UK, falling deeply in love with the rugged beauty of Wales. I spent my days hiking the Pembrokeshire Coast Path, a spectacular trail that winds through ancient farms—some welcoming, and others guarded by stern "No Trespassing" signs.

One evening, as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the sky turned a bruised, beautiful purple. I desperately wanted a photo, but a large field of sheep stood between me and the perfect shot. There wasn't a farmer in sight, so I decided to play the part of the silent intruder. I would sneak in, slip across the pasture, snap my masterpiece, and make a rapid, ghostly retreat.

I carefully, quietly unlatched the heavy wooden gate and swung it open.

The silence of the Welsh twilight didn't just break; it shattered. Immediately, three hundred heads snapped up in unison. Three hundred throats began to bleat with a deafening, hysterical excitement. Then, before I could even raise my camera, the entire flock charged.

They didn't just trot; they thundered toward me with a terrifying, single-minded pace. I stood my ground for a split second, convinced I was about to be trampled by a woolly mob, before realizing the frantic logistics of the farm.

The farmer had been rotating the flock. They had spent the day grazing their current field down to the nubs, and they had been waiting all afternoon for the gate to open to the lush, rejuvenated "salad bar" of the second field—exactly where I was standing. To the sheep, I wasn't an intruder; I was the Messiah of the Meadow, finally come to deliver them to the promised land of thick grass.

Panic set in as the "quiet" morning was replaced by absolute pandemonium. Realizing the farmer would likely be appearing over the hill at any second to investigate the noise, I did the only thing I could: I slammed the gate shut and latched it tight.

The silence that followed was heavy with 300 broken hearts. I didn't get my sunset photo, but I did get a rapid-fire exit. I fled down the path before the farmer could catch me, leaving behind a field of very disappointed, very vocal sheep who probably still remember me as the man who promised them heaven and delivered only a closed gate.

Memorable moments: The Paarl Gymnasium massacre

Growing up, my mother was the silent, steady heartbeat of my rugby career. I have the most heart-warming memories of her standing in the pouring rain, huddled under an umbrella, cheering us on through every muddy scrum and sodden tackle. Her love was as consistent as the Cape winter weather.

But there was one fixture on the annual calendar for which her nervous system was simply not equipped: the away match against Paarl Gymnasium.

Paarl Gym was an Afrikaans powerhouse out in the country, and to our prep school eyes, they didn't look like children—they looked like a different species. They towered over us, their forearms the size of our thighs. We were convinced they’d been raised on a strict diet of boerewors and biltong instead of breast milk. For them, winning wasn't just a goal; it was existential.

I have a vivid, slightly traumatic memory of three of us desperately clinging to a single Paarl player, hitching a collective piggyback ride as he thundered toward the try line, completely indifferent to the extra weight of three terrified schoolboys.

And then there were the fathers.

The Paarl dads didn't just spectate; they participated. Many of them wore the exact same rugby kit as their sons, looking like older, angrier versions of the giants on the field. During one particularly lopsided encounter, I saw a father reach down, rip a side flag out of the turf, and begin stabbing the ground with it in a rhythmic frenzy.

"Moer hulle, seuns!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Murder them, boys!"

Needless to say, the score was always catastrophically one-sided. I don’t think we ever managed to cross their try line, let alone win a match. I never blamed my mum for sitting those ones out. While she was happy to watch us get wet in the rain, she drew the line at watching us get systematically dismantled by teenage titans while their fathers reenacted medieval battle cries on the touchline.

Memorable moments: The Ryanair descent

They say airline travel is hours of boredom interrupted by moments of stark terror. In 2004, while working for Volvo, I learned exactly how "stark" that terror could be. I was on a Ryanair flight from Stansted to Gothenburg—the kind of extreme low-cost experience where you half-expect to be charged for the air you breathe.

Suddenly, the air decided to leave us.

The plane didn't just dip; it plummeted. We fell a staggering 1,000 metres in a matter of seconds. There was a violent, bone-shaking thump that sent luggage cascading out of the overhead lockers like plastic hail. Then, the nightmare trifecta: smoke began to coil through the cabin, the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling with a synchronized snap, and the screaming started.

Even the flight attendants, usually the stoic guardians of "tea or coffee," were white-faced with genuine panic. The man sitting next to me broke down completely. He whipped out a photograph of his wife and twin girls, staring at it with the haunted intensity of a man saying his final goodbye.

And me?

I have no idea why. Perhaps it’s some prehistoric, hard-wired glitch in the Myburgh DNA. Amidst the smoke, the screams, and the falling luggage, I got the giggles.

I tried to suppress it, knowing that a full-blown guffaw would be the height of social impropriety while my neighbor was mourning his own life, but I couldn't stop. I sat there, strapped into my seat, giggling uncontrollably into my yellow oxygen mask. It was as if my brain had decided that if we were going down, we might as well go down finding the whole thing ridiculous.

Eventually, the plane stabilized. The smoke cleared, the screaming subsided, and we landed without a word of explanation from the captain. That’s low-cost travel for you: you pay for the seat, but the life-altering trauma is complimentary.

For weeks afterward, I walked around in a state of pure, shimmering euphoria. I had stared into the abyss through a plastic mask while laughing like a maniac, and coming out the other side made the world seem impossibly bright. It turns out that a near-death experience is the ultimate "reset" button—even if your specific reaction to it is enough to make a grieving father think he's seated next to a psychopath.

Memorable moments: Taking a turn for the nurse

I’ve always had a bit of a "thing" for nurses. It started in my late teens when a varicocele sent me to the hospital for surgery. I was attended to by a nurse so strikingly pretty that I promptly "took a turn for the nurse"—a condition far more pleasant than the one that had brought me to the ward in the first place.

Years later, after my divorce from Ally, the universe seemed to be leaning into my preferences once again. I met Lizzy at the local park, brought together by the chaotic introduction of her Schnauzer and my Mack. She was lovely, and when I discovered she was a nurse, I was particularly smitten.

As we dated, I eventually confessed my long-standing admiration for the profession. Lizzy, ever the mischievous soul, gave me a wink. "Ooh," she said, "I’ll wear my nurse’s outfit to bed for you tonight."

I spent the evening in a state of high-altitude anticipation. I had a very specific cinematic image in my head—something involving a crisp white cap and a short skirt—the classic "Florence Nightingale" aesthetic.

I lay in bed, heart racing, as Lizzy slipped into the bathroom to change. The door finally creaked open, and she stepped into the light.

There she was. In her blue scrubs.

There was no white skirt, no stockings, no vintage charm. Instead, she was swathed in several yards of baggy, sterile, utilitarian nylon overalls—the kind of outfit designed to withstand a twelve-hour shift in a trauma ward, not a romantic evening. She looked ready to perform a difficult gallbladder removal, not a private masquerade.

She was so clearly keen to please that I didn't have the heart to tell her. I summoned my best "impressed" face and pretended to be thrilled, but inside, I was feeling a profound sense of "ward-room disappointment."

It turns out that in the world of modern medicine, romance and practicality are rarely on the same shift. I realized that night that if I wanted a vintage fantasy, I should have dated someone from a 1950s period drama; Lizzy was a woman of the 21st century, and in the 21st century, the path to a man's heart is apparently paved with baggy, anti-microbial polyester.

Memorable moments: The bed-wetting bandit

A few years back, my housemates Matt and Sharmista asked if they could get a puppy. In a moment of spectacular lapse in judgment, I said yes. It is a decision I ended up regretting with every fiber of my being.

Enter Milly: a pug-spaniel cross who looked deceivingly sweet but was, in reality, a portable source of immense psychological stress.

Our relationship got off to a literal "crash" start. During her first week, Matt asked if I’d mind her for a moment. I left her downstairs to take a quick shower, only to be interrupted by a haunting howl and a sickening thud. Milly had attempted to scale the stairs, slipped through the gaps between the steps, and plummeted onto the hardwood floor below. I rushed her to the vet, my heart hammering against my ribs, convinced I’d presided over a tragedy. Thankfully, she was fine, but my nervous system was not.

A few weeks later, she escalated her campaign by sneaking into my room and peeing on my bed. Not just once, but several times. I was far from impressed, and Mack—the undisputed Lord of the Manor—found her high-spirited antics utterly "pesky."

The chaos of the household, combined with other factors, eventually led my doctor to prescribe me some Xanax for anxiety. One afternoon, I made the fatal mistake of leaving my bedroom door ajar. I returned to find a scene that looked like a canine rockstar's final hotel room: Milly was sprawled on my bed, surrounded by an open bottle and pills scattered across the linens.

For the second time in a matter of months, I was racing a "horror of a dog" to the vet to have her stomach pumped.

I have never felt a sense of relief quite like the day Matt, Sharmista, and their pharmacological-adventurer of a dog finally moved out. Mack and I watched them go, finally reclaiming our quiet sanctuary.

And just like that, peace returned.

Mack resumed his rightful throne, I resumed my sanity, and somewhere out there, Milly continued her experimental research into pharmaceuticals—now, thankfully, under someone else’s supervision.

Memorable moments: The fountain of marketing

In 1999, during my final year at Old Mutual, we embarked on the annual Christmas pilgrimage—a high-stakes event where free beer and corporate hierarchies rarely mix well. The plan was sophisticated enough: a bus trip to Darling to watch the legendary Pieter-Dirk Uys perform, followed by a lunch where the booze flowed with alarming frequency.

By the time we boarded the bus for the hour-long journey back to Cape Town, the "festive spirit" had taken a firm hold of the passengers. Rodney, from Agency Marketing, was particularly well-lubricated. Finding the seats full, he decided to improvise, perched precariously on a ledge at the very front of the bus, facing the crowd like a weary king on a makeshift throne.

Halfway home, the unexpected happened. Without warning, and seemingly without moving a muscle, Rodney began to pee.

It wasn't a subtle leak; it was a high-velocity event. The stream was so powerful it acted like a literal fountain, erupting from his trousers and spraying the first four rows of the bus in a golden arc. The transition from "drunken commute" to "waterpark nightmare" was instantaneous.

Pandemonium erupted. People screamed, dove for cover, and tried to use their gift bags as shields, but the bus was a confined space and Rodney’s "marketing strategy" was remarkably wide-reaching.

Rodney didn't lose his job that day, but he did achieve a form of immortality. He became a legend of the infamous kind—the man who literally "poured" his heart and soul into the front row. While he remained on the payroll, it’s safe to say that whenever a promotion was discussed, the conversation probably ended with a very specific, damp memory of the Darling bus.

Matt graduates from the University of Cape Town

Wonderful photos from Jo of a very special family milestone. Fingers crossed that Matt will now find an incredible job that makes all the hard work worthwhile.

Balmoral with Chris

 Delicious grilled calamari and squid for lunch, followed by a relaxing stroll in the sunshine.

Memorable moments: The scent of enlightenment

I had just returned from a Sunday spiritual retreat—a day steeped in meditation, mindfulness, and the kind of profound silence that makes you feel as though you’re floating six inches off the ground. By the time I arrived home, my calm was absolute. I was in an enlightened, Zen-like state, a "dispassionate witness" to the world.

Mack greeted me, though with notably less joyful abandon than usual. This was in the era before Liza, and I’d been forced to leave him with my housemate, Craig—a man with whom Mack didn’t exactly "gel."

Still wrapped in my blanket of peace, I remembered the laundry I’d left in the machine before the retreat. I went to retrieve it, carried it upstairs, and meticulously hung it on the clothes horse on my balcony. It was only then that a distinctly non-spiritual aroma began to pierce my meditative bubble.

I looked down. My shoes were covered. I looked at the floor. My bedroom was a minefield. The stairs, the lounge, the kitchen—it was everywhere.

The source, I realized, was the laundry room. Mack, perhaps voicing his profound displeasure at being left behind, had made a significant "deposit" right in front of the machine. In my enlightened haze, I had walked straight through it and proceeded to stamp my new, smelly reality into every square inch of the house.

"Shit!" I said—a mantra somewhat different from the ones I’d practiced that morning.

My school of meditation was all about "The Witness." Observe the breath. Observe the sensation. Do not react. So, as I spent the next hour and a half on my hands and knees with a mop and a bucket, I repeated my new focus: "Witness and don’t react."

It was the ultimate spiritual practice. I stood over the bucket, a dispassionate observer of the Pine O'Cleen, trying to remain grounded while the physical evidence of Mack’s indignation met my scrubbing brush.

I can’t say I passed the test with flying colors—there may have been some un-Zen-like muttering under my breath—but I was certainly less agitated than I would have been without the retreat. Mack had taught me a valuable lesson: enlightenment is all well and good, but in the real world, you still have to watch where you step.

Memorable moments: The piano hiders

Once upon a time, many years ago, a party was held in a house crowded with teenagers. The game of the night was "Murder in the Dark." The lights were killed, the house was plunged into a predatory blackness, and as the "murderer" began to stalk the corridors, the guests scattered into the shadows, shrieking and scrambling for safety.

When the lights finally flickered back on, two complete strangers discovered they had chosen the exact same refuge: the cramped, dusty space beneath an old piano.

As they untangled themselves and looked across at one another, the impression was instantaneous. She was taken by his cheery smile and an optimism that seemed to vibrate off him; he was utterly smitten by her long, lithe, gorgeous legs—legs that he maintained, for the next sixty years, were the most beautiful in all of England.

Their connection was immediate, and four years later, they were married. What followed was a romance that survived the brutal separations of the Second World War and spanned well over half a century. They were, quite simply, inseparable.

In their later years, when Gran developed dementia and moved into a care facility, Gramps’ devotion only deepened. He visited her every single day, wheeling her out into the sunlight of the garden and holding her hand for hours on end. He was a man possessed by a single, noble mission: he was determined to outlive her, purely so he could ensure she was never alone.

Gran passed away at the age of eighty-two on September 16, 2002.

Following her death, Gramps’ own health began to falter, and he eventually moved into care himself. On September 15 of the following year, he looked at the nurses and made a quiet, certain announcement: "My darling is coming to get me."

He was right. The very next day—September 16, 2003—exactly one year to the day after Gran had passed, Gramps went to join her.

And I’ve often thought about that moment under the piano.  Two people, hiding in the dark, not knowing what was about to find them.

It turns out it wasn’t the murderer. 

It was a lifetime of love.

Memorable moments: Thick as Tina

Growing up, we had a beloved dog named Tina. I have never, in all my years, seen a dog who could wag her tail with such violent, sustained joy. It didn't matter if you’d been gone for two years or two minutes; Tina’s tail was her primary mode of communication.

Eventually, her enthusiasm became her undoing. She wagged so hard and so often against the walls that her tail was constantly injured, the scabs breaking open and spraying blood everywhere in a rhythmic, joyful massacre. It lasted for months until it became untenable. With heavy hearts, my parents had the vet remove it.

Tina returned home wearing a pair of female panties for a few weeks to protect the healing stump. But the loss of the tail didn't dampen her spirit; it just forced her to find a new medium for her delight. From that day on, when she saw you, she would emit a low, rumbling hum of pleasure through her nose while her entire hindquarters swung from side to side in a rhythmic "butt-wag." If the excitement reached a certain threshold, she’d punctuate the moment by widdling with pure joy.

Tina lived for the driveway ball-toss. We had another dog, Meg, and the competition between them was nothing short of existential. For Tina, getting to the ball before Meg wasn't just a game—it was her life’s work. If Meg won, the heartbreak was visible.

When she wasn't competing for tennis balls, Tina was hunting shadows. She was particularly obsessed with the moving silhouettes of butterflies, chasing them across the grass for hours, barking at the ground, and occasionally stubbing her nose on the dirt in her pursuit of a dark spot. At night, she’d transfer that intensity to torchlight, sprinting after a beam of light as if it were a tangible prize.

My grandfather, never one to mince words, used to use her as the family benchmark for intelligence. If my sister or I did or said something particularly dim-witted, he’d shake his head and say, "Don’t be as thick as Tina."

He wasn't entirely wrong about her IQ, but I loved her with all my heart. She was the kinetic, shadow-chasing soundtrack to my childhood and teens—a dog who might not have understood how light worked, but who understood exactly how to love a family with every fiber of her (short-tailed) being.

Memorable moments: The person Mack thinks I am

In 2013, I found myself diving into the digital depths of a Kindle book dedicated to the "Importance of Purpose." It was a heavy, earnest volume designed to help you find your motivation, make a meaningful contribution to the world, and generally become the best possible version of a human being. It was packed with complex exercises and soul-searching prompts, and I was fully committed to the work.

That evening, I was lying on my bed, digital highlighter at the ready, when I looked over at Mack.

He was lying right next to me, his head resting on the duvet. He didn't have a Kindle, he hadn't read a single page of self-help literature, and he certainly wasn't worried about his "contribution to the world." He just looked across at me with an expression of such total, unconditioned love and adoration that it stopped me mid-sentence.

In that gaze, there were no expectations, no performance reviews, and no five-year plans. To Mack, I wasn't an English teacher or a man struggling with his "alpha" status; I was the center of his universe—a flawless, heroic figure capable of infinite kindness (and the occasional steak scrap).

I looked at the complex exercises on the screen and then back at the dog. A sudden, quiet clarity washed over me.

I realized then that I didn't need a three-hundred-page manual to find my "why." My purpose was sitting right there, wagging its tail. I thought to myself, Maybe it’s actually very simple: I just want to be the person my dog thinks I am.

If I could live up to the version of me that existed in Mack’s eyes—the one who was always worth the wait, always worthy of love, and always the "best human" in the room—then all the other exercises would be redundant.

Memorable moments: Lord Muck of the Manor

A short while after Ally and I separated, an old friend moved into the spare room. He was a steady presence, paid his rent on time, and I appreciated the extra income. But as it turned out, he wasn’t just paying rent; he was also conducting a six-month sociological study on the power dynamics of my household.

One afternoon, he handed me a book. The title was blunt: "What to Do When Your Dog is the Alpha Male in Your Relationship."

I flipped it over and saw a quote by Martha Scott that felt like a personal attack: "Don’t make the mistake of treating your dogs like humans, or they’ll treat you like dogs."

I was, to put it mildly, a little affronted. Why on earth would he buy me such a thing? Mack and I were perfect equals! We shared a life, a vibe, and a mutual respect. I tossed the book onto my shelf in a huff, refusing to give it the satisfaction of a single turned page.

A few weeks later, I finished brushing my teeth and walked into my bedroom, ready for a peaceful night’s sleep. I stopped dead in the doorway. There was Mack, positioned exactly where my head was supposed to go. He wasn't just lying there; he was perched atop my pillow like "Lord Muck," surveying the room with a haughty, regal air that suggested I was merely a guest in his executive suite.

He didn't move. He didn't wag. He just looked at me as if to say, "I believe your spot is at the foot of the bed tonight, human."

I stood there staring at his "proportional" ego and realized the truth. I slowly backed out of the room, walked over to the bookshelf, and pulled down the manual. It turns out that when you treat a Zen Master like a king for long enough, he eventually decides he needs a throne—and in my house, that throne was a standard-sized pillow.

Memorable moments: The dog-flap dilemma

Every morning, I would head out early to my job as an English teacher, leaving Mack comfortably ensconced in the warmth of my bed. Our daily hand-over ritual was clockwork: around 9:00 AM, Liza would arrive, knock on the door, and belt out her signature summons: "Mack, Mack, Mack, Macketty Mack Mack!"

Usually, this triggered a joyful, high-speed sprint as Mack thundered down the stairs and burst through the dog flap for a blissful reunion. But one morning, the wind conspired against the routine and blew my bedroom door shut.

When Liza arrived and gave the call, Mack found himself a prisoner. He went from "Zen Master" to "Houdini in a panic" instantly, barking with a frantic intensity that could be heard down the street. Liza, hearing the desperation, immediately assumed the worst. Mack was injured. Mack was dying. Mack had somehow succumbed to the "sucker" appendix genes of the Myburgh line.

In a state of total maternal panic, she tried my mobile, but I was in the middle of a lesson with my phone switched off. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Liza decided the only way into the fortress was through the dog flap.

Now, Liza is not a large woman, but she isn't exactly "canine-proportioned" either. She dropped to her hands and knees and committed to the entry. She managed to get her head and shoulders through the portal before the laws of physics intervened. She was stuck—wedged firmly in the doorframe, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.

It was at this exact moment that my housemate arrived home. He walked up the path to find a pair of legs and a bottom waving in the air, while the rest of Liza was inside the house, still gamely yelling, "Mack! Mack! Mack!" into the hallway. All the while, the "victim" continued his operatic barking from the safety of the upstairs bedroom.

It takes a special kind of person to prioritize a barking dog over the basic laws of physics and personal decorum. Liza didn't just want to save Mack; she was willing to become a permanent part of the house’s infrastructure to do it. My housemate’s arrival was the only thing that saved her from a very long morning of "Macketty Mack-ing" into the carpet. After that, we decided that a spare key was a much more "proportional" solution than Liza attempting to shrink herself to the size of a spaniel.

Memorable moments: The prayer gong paradox

Mack was, in many ways, a spiritual dog—a natural Zen master of the "now." He was a creature of the light; if a single sunbeam pierced the shadows of my room, he would find it and claim it instantly. He even had a dedicated meditation practice. In my early days, I used to meditate lying on the floor with my feet up on the bed, and Mack would immediately come and settle his weight onto my chest and tummy, resting his head on my shoulder to soak up the chilled-out vibrations.

When a group of friends invited me to a formal weekend meditation retreat, I asked if I could bring my four-legged guru along. They were hesitant—retreats are usually strictly human affairs—but because Mack was so famously placid, they made an exception.

We arrived, and Mack played his part perfectly. He slipped quietly under my chair, a silent shadow of canine composure. We went through the formal preparations, grounding ourselves and sinking into a deep, collective calm. The room was heavy with silence and spiritual intent.

Then, Brendan picked up the striker and hit the prayer gong.

Now, there is one thing—and one thing alone—that makes Mack go absolutely ballistic, and that is a doorbell. To his ears, the resonant, metallic claaaang of the sacred gong wasn't a call to enlightenment; it was a high-priority intruder alert.

Mack didn't just wake up; he launched himself from under the chair like a furry missile. He began to bark uncontrollably, a frantic, rhythmic explosion of noise that shattered the "oneness" of the room into a million jagged pieces. The "semblance of calm" didn't just evaporate; it was hunted down and mauled.

I had to scramble to my feet, grab his collar, and drag my "Zen Master" out of the hall while apologizing profusely to a room full of people who had just been violently ejected from their third eye.

It was deeply embarrassing. I realized that day that while Mack was indeed a creature of the light, he was also a creature of the front porch. He proved that even in the deepest state of meditation, there is no sound quite as powerful as the one that tells a dog there might be a postman at the door.

Memorable moment: The blonde magnet

Mack always loved me, but I was never under any illusion about the hierarchy of his heart. He was absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Ally. When we eventually separated and she moved away, Mack was left with a lingering, hopeful void.

Every trip to the park near my house became a high-stakes investigation. If Mack spotted a woman with blonde hair—whether she was fifty yards away or just a glimmer on the horizon—he was off like a shot. He was convinced, every single time, that he’d finally found his missing person.

I, of course, had to follow in his wake. I’d jog across the field, arriving breathless just as Mack was realizing his mistake, and I’d have to offer a sheepish, "Sorry, he thought you were someone else... Hi, I'm [Name]."

It didn't take long for me to realize that Mack had inadvertently become the most brilliant "ice-breaker" in the history of dating. He was introducing me to every attractive blonde woman in the neighborhood with a success rate that a professional matchmaker would envy.

I looked at him one afternoon, panting and happy after yet another "investigation," and realized I was sitting on a goldmine. I thought to myself, I should really be renting this dog out to the eligible bachelors of the neighborhood by the hour. I could have made a fortune. Mack would get his exercise, the bachelors would get their introductions, and I’d be the tycoon behind the world’s first "Canine Wingman" agency.

Memorable moments: The forensic envelope

Not long after Liza came into our lives—and into Mack’s—I returned home to find a mysterious envelope taped to my front door. It wasn’t a bill or a friendly "hello" card; it felt strangely weighted.

I opened it up, and two small pieces of plastic fell out into my palm. I turned them over, squinting at them, trying to identify which household object had met a violent end. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from Liza:

"I found these in Mack’s poo. I’m most concerned. What has he been eating?"

I stood there on the porch, staring at the plastic evidence of Mack’s internal transit system. It was a baptism by fire into our new co-parenting arrangement. Most people might start a relationship by sharing a bottle of wine or a nice meal; Liza and I started ours with a shared, high-stakes investigation into what, exactly, Mack had decided was an appetizer.

It was a clear signal that Liza wasn't just a casual observer in Mack’s life—she was a woman who didn't mind getting her hands dirty (literally) to ensure his well-being. Looking at those two pieces of plastic, I realized that if Mack could survive his own questionable diet, and I could survive the horror of receiving his "output" in an envelope, the three of us were going to get along just fine.

Memorable moments: The silky souvenir

Mack had ears that were, quite simply, a sensory delight. They were so incredibly silky that I used to spend ages just stroking them, marveling at the texture. One day, in a moment of dry, tongue-in-cheek humor, I turned to his co-owner, Liza, and made a suggestion.

"You know," I said, "when Mack eventually goes, I think I want to have his ears removed. I’ll turn them into a keyring so I can keep that silkiness with me forever."

I expected a laugh or a mock-shudder. Instead, Liza looked at me with a face of total, unwavering seriousness.

"Oh, good," she said. "I’ve been meaning to bring this up. I’m going to keep the rest of him and have him taxidermied. I want to put him right in the middle of my living room."

I stared at her in genuine horror. My "keyring" joke suddenly felt very small compared to the vision of a stuffed Mack standing guard over the coffee table. "Are you... are you being serious?" I stammered.

She held the gaze for a heartbeat longer, then a mischievous smile finally broke across her face. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling.

I never did get that keyring, and thankfully, Mack never ended up as a statue in the lounge. But that moment of wide-eyed horror remains one of my favorite memories of the absurdity that comes with loving a dog as much as we loved him.

Memorable moments: The empty envelope

When I was in prep school, I went to spend Christmas with my friend Greg Perks and his family at his grandparents' house in Plettenberg Bay. It was a classic, sun-drenched coastal Christmas, and we all gathered in the living room for the sacred ritual of opening presents and cards.

The atmosphere was festive until Greg opened the card from his Gran.

He pulled it out, read the message, and his face immediately fell into a mask of pure confusion and mild disappointment. He looked at the empty envelope, then back at the card, and then at his mother, Barbara.

Barbara, meanwhile, was having an identical experience. She stared at her own card with a furrowed brow, looking increasingly concerned.

The message inside every single card, written in Gran’s elegant hand, was the same: "Buy yourself a present this year."

After the gift-opening ended, Barbara pulled Gran aside for a "little word," her voice laced with genuine worry.

"Mum," she whispered, "is everything okay? What did you mean by what you wrote in the cards? Are you... financially strapped? Do we need to help?"

Gran looked at her with total bewilderment. "Financially strapped? Heavens, no! Why on earth would you think that?"

"Well," Barbara replied, "you told everyone to buy themselves a present."

Gran’s eyes went wide as the realization hit her. "Oh my goodness!" she cried. "I’ve just been so busy! I sat down and wrote out cheques for every single one of you, and I fully intended to include them. But I’ve just realized... I forgot to actually put the cheques in the cards!"

Sure enough, a quick trip to her cupboard revealed the missing small fortune, neatly signed and waiting for a home.

Memorable moments: The logistical symphony

One evening, Ivor and I went to watch his little daughter perform at a school music evening. It was one of those classic parental milestones, but the physics of the event were spectacularly skewed.

When it was her turn, she appeared on stage looking tiny and delicate—followed by an adult lugging a cello that was quite clearly three times her size. It looked less like a musical instrument and more like a large wooden wardrobe she was expected to wrestle into submission.

What followed was a masterclass in slow-motion preparation. It took a solid twenty minutes of intense focus just to get the logistics right: the chair was adjusted, the music stand was maneuvered, the endpin was stabbed into the floor, and she spent an eternity shifting into the "exactly right" anatomical position to accommodate the giant mahogany beast.

Finally, after the Herculean setup was complete, she took a breath, gave what seemed like exactly three deliberate strokes of the bow, and... it was over. The performance lasted about thirty seconds. The ratio of "preparation" to "actual music" was mathematically absurd.

But she was absolutely adorable, and despite the comical brevity of the piece, Ivor was beaming. He was the picture of the proud father, unmoved by the fact that the setup had taken forty times longer than the symphony.

Watching Ivor that night, I realized that pride has nothing to do with the length of the performance. It’s about the twenty minutes of watching someone you love negotiate a truce with a giant wooden beast for the sake of three perfect notes.

Memorable moments: The blackboard brawl

In 1984, my school world shifted. We moved away from the dour, strict atmosphere of the previous headmaster and into the era of Mr. Cannon. He was charismatic, warm, and—most importantly—an unbelievable teacher. In his first year, he tossed out the standard textbook and devoted half the syllabus to an "alternative" approach. We were no longer students; we were detectives, gleaning history from archaeological clues and conflicting accounts.

But the most powerful lesson I ever received didn't come from a book or a shard of pottery. It came from a staged "scandal" that has stayed with me for nearly forty years.

We were in the middle of a session when the Deputy Head, Mr. Hart, stormed into the classroom. He looked livid. He marched up to Mr. Cannon and bellowed, "I saw you eyeing up my wife the other day! How dare you!" (To this day, I’m not even sure Mr. Hart was married, but the delivery was flawless).

The class sat in stunned, horizontal silence as the two most powerful men in our school got into a physical scuffle. Mr. Hart shoved Mr. Cannon against the blackboard, teeth bared, shouting more angry words while we watched in total disbelief.

"You haven't heard the end of this!" Mr. Hart finally screamed, storming out and slamming the door.

The tension in the room was thick enough to carve. We were reeling—what had we just witnessed? Mr. Cannon calmly straightened his tie, dusted off his jacket, and turned to us with a slow, knowing smile.

"Right class," he said quietly. "What did just happen here?"

The relief that swept through the room as we realized it was a performance was immense, but the real work was just beginning. Mr. Cannon began to grill us on the details. What was Mr. Hart wearing? What exactly did he say? What did his body language insinuate?

The results were staggering. Even though we had all been in the same small room, watching the same event only ten minutes prior, our accounts were a mess of contradictions. We argued over the words used, the intensity of the shove, and even the color of Mr. Hart's tie.

Mr. Cannon grinned with the satisfaction of a man who had just pulled off the ultimate heist.

"Well, class," he said, "if you can't all agree on something you witnessed first-hand ten minutes ago, how in the hell can you believe in historical accounts? How can you believe in history?"

Nearly forty years later, the details of that day are still more vivid to me than any date I ever memorized for an exam. That is the definition of powerful teaching: creating an experience so disorienting that the truth finally has a chance to sink in.

Memorable moments: The two little waves

I met my wonderful friend, Ivor, during my university years while attending a youth group. He quickly became one of my closest confidants—one of those rare people in whose presence you can be entirely, unapologetically yourself.

Our relationship possessed a beautiful depth; we spent countless hours in those "putting the world to right" conversations that only seem to happen in the quiet intensity of youth. But we also shared a relentless sense of fun and a love for those deep, gasping belly laughs that leave you breathless.

In fact, we developed a term for our friendship that I still think is the perfect descriptor: "Two Little Waves."

In physics, there is a magical effect called constructive interference. When two small waves overlap in just the right way—at the exact right frequency and phase—they don’t just pass each other by. Instead, they merge and amplify, suddenly transforming into one massive, powerful wave.

That was Ivor and me. On our own, we were just two students navigating life, but when we got together, the interference was purely constructive. We didn't just add our energies together; we multiplied them.

Suddenly, two little waves became a swell of double the fun and double the hilarity. It’s a metaphor that epitomizes our bond to a T.

These days, he’s in Cape Town and I’m in Sydney, living separate lives on opposite sides of the world. Many months pass between seeing each other.

And yet within within minutes of reconnecting, it’s back. The same rhythm. The same laughter. Two little waves coming back into perfect alignment.

Memorable moments: My Himalayan organ

In my final year at university, reality hit me in the form of a searing, localized agony at two in the morning. I managed to get into my car to drive to my parents' house, but the journey was a stop-start nightmare; at every red light, I had to abandon the steering wheel and curl myself into a fetal ball until the light turned green.

My parents took one look at my translucent complexion and rushed me to the emergency room. I was whisked into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.

My first memory of waking up was the surgeon standing over my bed, looking less like a clinical professional and more like a proud fisherman.

"My God, Mr. Myburgh!" he exclaimed. "You have the hugest appendix I have ever seen! It’s truly impressive—look, here it is in a bottle." He held up the jar with a flourish. "Getting this sucker out of you was a genuine challenge. Do you mind if we keep it? It honestly belongs in a museum."

Droggy and recovering, I looked at the "sucker" in the jar and felt a strange, misplaced sense of pride. I remember thinking, Wow, I only wish certain other of my organs were built to the same magnificent proportions.

With my parents heading off on a trip, I went to stay with my beloved grandparents to convalesce. It was during this recovery period that I discovered a side of my grandfather I had never suspected.

One morning, unable to sleep, I crept into the kitchen at dawn for a glass of milk. There sat Gramps at the kitchen table, intensely focused on the morning crossword. He was entirely, unapologetically nude.

"Gramps," I whispered, clutching my surgical stitches, "you’re... you're nude."

He didn't even look up from the clues. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "For some reason, it makes me more inspired at thinking up words."

I considered this in silence.

Between his approach to crosswords and my record-breaking appendix, it was becoming increasingly clear that subtlety was not a dominant trait in our family.

Memorable moments: Fast and furious

Once upon a time, there was a fine young chap named Antony. He lived a happy life in Pinelands with three zany housemates, but there were times when he felt he was missing that "special something." Then, on a cold, blustery winter evening, he was invited to a Glühwein party. He walked in, ready to get stuck into the warm wine, when suddenly—flash, bam, alakhazam—his whole world shifted.

There, standing before him, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

If you ask Antony about this moment today, he’ll give you the most explicit details: the outfit she wore, the sparkle in her eyes, the fact that her feet were bare, and—crucially—that she was carrying a plate of sausage rolls. It was, for him, a total thunderbolt of love at first sight.

However, the "heroine" of our story had a slightly different experience. When Jo was later asked to recall her side of the events, she couldn't actually remember Antony being at the party at all.

Undeterred, our hero persisted. He ensured their paths crossed whenever possible until, eventually, Jo noticed him and decided he was actually rather delicious too. The turning point came a few weeks later at a music concert. Jostled by the crowd, Jo turned to him and said, "Antony, please take hold of my hand—I don’t want to lose you."

Being a perceptive chap, Antony realized things were hotted up sufficiently to make his big move. After the concert, he took Jo out for frozen yoghurt. As they sat there, he decided to employ a classic "Valentino" move: the surreptitious hand on the knee.

It was a time-honored approach, but it had one fatal flaw. Antony’s hand was icy cold from holding his frozen yoghurt. When he made contact, Jo got the fright of her life, leaping a meter and a half off her chair in pure shock.

That was the official start of their "fast and furious" relationship: Antony was fast, and Jo was furious. Despite the thermal shock, their love blossomed, and they were married in 1996—proving that even a freezing hand can’t put out a fire that started with a plate of sausage rolls.

Memorable moments: The lone tooth legend

My Gramps was a world-class flirt, a trait he carried with effortless grace well into his later years. It was entirely harmless, and Gran never really minded; it was simply a part of his nature—he just couldn't help himself.

One evening, Ally and I took him to the Spur in Cape Town. He loved the place, particularly the steaks. As soon as we sat down, he was in top form, grinning at our waitress, teasing her with practiced ease, and offering charming compliments that had her beaming. He was the undisputed king of the table.

He was midway through enjoying his steak when disaster—of a very specific, mechanical nature—struck.

Gramps suddenly began to choke. Before we could even react, a rogue piece of steak went flying out of his mouth, followed immediately by his entire set of dentures. They hit his plate with a clatter and began to bounce up and down like a pair of porcelain castanets.

He scrambled to retrieve them, but the physics of the moment were against him. He couldn't get them back in. He was left sitting there with exactly one solitary tooth remaining in the front of his mouth.

Most men would have signaled for the check and buried their face in a napkin. But Gramps was made of sterner stuff.

When the waitress returned to the table a moment later, he didn't flinch. He leaned back and gave her a brilliant, confident grin, his single remaining tooth gleaming under the Spur’s warm lighting. He picked up the conversation exactly where he had left off, as charming and self-assured as if he were a Hollywood lead.

He proved that night that true charisma doesn't require a Hollywood smile. It just requires the guts to keep flirting even when your teeth are still vibrating on the dinner plate. I looked at Ally and realized I was watching a master at work; the dentures were gone, but the legend was very much intact.

Memorable moments: The ribbon transformation

When I was in high school, our mathematical world was presided over by Mr. Norton. To our teenage eyes, he seemed ancient—at least eighty years old—and his teaching style was as dry as the chalk dust he conjured. We were a naturally unruly bunch, and Mr. Norton’s dullness was the perfect fuel for our misbehavior. We pushed every boundary, right up until the day reality crashed into the classroom: Mr. Norton had a sudden heart attack.

The guilt was immediate and heavy. We felt personally responsible for his failing heart, and his long absence left a somber void. That void, however, was soon filled by a replacement who couldn't have been further from Mr. Norton’s world.

She was an eighteen-year-old Polish girl, straight out of university, named Miss Kateryna. She was young, pretty, and possessed a simple, daily ritual that became the focal point of our lives: she wore a different colored ribbon in her hair every single day.

The effect on our class was miraculous.

Before she even stepped through the door, the once-rowdy room would be hushed in anticipation as we placed frantic bets on the day's color. "Yellow?" "Deep blue?" "Red?" The entire class was hopelessly, collectively smitten.

We had spent years perfecting the art of being a nuisance, but in her presence, we became like meek puppies. The transition was total. You could hear a pin drop in that room; we hung on her every word, suddenly finds ourselves intensely interested in the properties of a parabola or the mysteries of calculus.

It turns out that what Mr. Norton’s decades of experience couldn't achieve, a bit of Ukrainian charm and a silk ribbon did in an afternoon. We were a group of teenagers who had successfully defeated an "ancient" authority figure, only to be completely conquered by an eighteen-year-old with a penchant for primary colors.

Memorable moments: The Khumbu Siren

In 2023, a group of us—including Russell, Gavin, and Rajesh—set out for Everest Base Camp. It’s a brutal trek under the best conditions, but Russell started the journey with a stubborn throat infection. By the time we hit the higher altitudes, it had mutated into the dreaded "Khumbu cough," and it was, without exaggeration, the most extraordinary sound I have ever heard emerge from a human being.

It didn't just sound like a cough; it was a multi-stage acoustic event. It would start as a low, ominous rumble in his chest, then rapidly accelerate in pitch until it hit a high-velocity, uncontrollable wail. To the rest of us, it sounded like the melancholic mating call of a cross-eyed yeti searching for a lost love in a blizzard.

The hike was grueling. For days, we pushed through thin air and steep terrain—conditions that would break most healthy people, let alone someone whose lungs were performing a one-man opera. Yet, Russell was a legend. He remained cheerful and relentlessly adventurous, refusing to let the "Siren" in his chest dampen his spirits.

We, however, were not quite as legendary.

While we genuinely loved Russell, we were also as brutal as the mountain itself. We became so fascinated by the mechanics of the Khumbu Siren that we turned it into a competitive sport. Every time we reached a particularly steep precipice with a good echo acoustic, or a quiet moment of reflection, one of us would drop a perfectly timed one-liner.

Russell, unable to help himself, would start to giggle, which would immediately trigger the wail, echoing off the Himalayan peaks while we stood by, shamelessly scoring points for the "Best Trigger."

It was terrible, really. But as we climbed higher into the clouds, it became the soundtrack of our journey—a mix of thin air, gasping laughter, and the most ridiculous cough in the history of mountaineering. Russell eventually made it to Base Camp, proving that while the mountain is tough, it’s nothing compared to a man who can survive both a chest infection and the "kindness" of his best friends.

Memorable moments: The Karoo comedy club

In 2025, I headed into the Karoo desert for Afrikaburn with Russell and a fantastic group of his friends. It’s a surreal, makeshift community of 13,000 people where the world of money vanishes for a week, replaced entirely by the "gifting" economy.

One of the most prized gifts in that dusty world is a shower. Since all water has to be brought into the desert, a wash is a miracle. We would stand naked in a queue, eventually reaching the front to be doused in warm water and given a thorough, good-natured scrub-down by two delightful ladies. It was the kind of communal, ego-stripping experience that only happens in the Karoo.

Russell, ever the visionary, brought two gifting ideas of his own that were absolute triumphs.

First, he curated an incredible collection of temporary tattoos. We set up a "Tattoo Station" that became a magnet for connection. It was a brilliant way to bond with strangers over a bit of ink and water. I remember our friend Dawn, who has a wicked sense of humor, showing off her new acquisition.

"I’ve got a little mouse on my inner thigh," she announced with a mischievous twinkle. She peeled back her sarong to reveal the spot, only to find the mouse had vanished. She looked genuinely perplexed for a second before deadpanning, "Oh dear, I think my pussy has eaten it!"

But Russell’s piece de résistance came the following day.

The toilets at Afrikaburn are a unique architectural experience: rows of twelve "long-drops" on stilts, completely open to the desert breeze save for a low wooden partition. It’s a place where you can contemplate the vast horizon while attending to your morning business in full view of passers-by.

Russell realized he had the one thing every performer dreams of: a captive audience.

Armed with a chair, a boombox, and his endless mental library of one-liners, he set up shop right in front of the loos. A friend dubbed it "The Shit Show," and the name stuck instantly. Russell delivered a masterclass in comedy to the row of seated spectators, encouraging them to heckle and yell "CRAP!" whenever a joke didn't land.

Before long, a crowd of passers-by had gathered, and the atmosphere was electric. It was a festive, ridiculous triumph. Most people go to the desert to find themselves; Russell went to the desert to make sure that even in their most "exposed" moments, people were properly entertained by a man who truly knows how to work a room—even when half the room is sitting on a long-drop.

Memorable moments: The Quizmaster’s missed calling

Russell has a vast, almost intimidating general knowledge. He possesses a photographic memory that never fails; I also have a photographic memory, though I usually forget to take the lens cap off. This makes him a formidable opponent in any trivia setting, and an even better Quizmaster. During the COVID lockdowns in Australia, he’d gather all my local friends on Zoom from Cape Town and host brilliantly fun sessions that kept us all sane.

But the true extent of Russell’s "genius" really shone through during the infamous sex quizzes we used to attend in Cape Town pubs.

The format was simple but inspired: the Quizmaster would show a scene from a vintage adult film—nothing too extreme—and we had to guess what happened next. You’d get a point for accuracy, but more importantly, you’d get a point for making the room laugh.

Russell was in a league of his own. His predictions for the "next scene" were consistently more creative, elaborate, and hilarious than the actual movie. Whether it was an unexpected plumber-related plot twist or a bizarrely timed monologue, his "scripts" were far superior to the real thing.

I’m convinced Russell missed his true calling as a writer-director in the adult industry, specifically in the untapped genre of "Comedy Porn."

It takes a special kind of genius to turn a blue movie into a red-faced comedy routine. Russell’s photographic memory and quick wit made him the undisputed king of the pub quiz, reminding us all that if you aren't laughing at the ridiculousness of life (and especially sex), you’re probably doing it wrong.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road olympics

During the years Russell and I were housemates at Willow Road, the house became a laboratory for high-stakes, low-budget adrenaline. We didn't need a gym; we had a three-seater couch and a dangerous amount of competitive energy.

Our Couch Jumping competitions were a masterclass in poor risk management. The goal was to clear the entire length of the sofa in a single leap, which required a massive run-up and a violent "emergency brake" landing. We’d stick the landing, panting and triumphant, with our toes skidding just inches away from a literal death plummet off the balcony.

Then there was the day of the Garden Cane Duel.

Dressed in our bathrobes—which felt appropriately "regal" for the sport—we engaged in a ferocious fencing match. We weren't just poking; we were really laying into it. Russell landed several sharp, swishing blows across my shoulders that stung like a swarm of hornets.

Determined to counter, I swung back with a lucky—though profoundly unlucky for him—swish that caught him squarely across the nipple. The resulting yelp of agony was instantaneous. We were doubled over, a mess of terry cloth and bamboo, caught in that strange space between genuine pain and hysterical laughter.

It was at exactly this moment that Russell’s brother, Roger, walked in.

He stood in the doorway, staring in genuine horror at two grown men in bathrobes, armed with sticks, sweating, and clutching their injuries in a living room that looked like a disaster zone.  We tried to explain the "logic" of the match—the rules of the bathrobe-fencing and the strategic importance of the couch-jump—but I think he realized then what we already knew: at Willow Road, if it wasn't slightly dangerous or entirely ridiculous, it wasn't worth doing.

Memorable moments: The rose and the bromance

It’s amazing to think how the most important friendship of my life began. At the start of my final year at university, I had just started dating Ally. We were completely smitten, spending every spare moment together.

But I wasn't the only one who noticed her.

Every day, as Ally sat on the Jamie Steps at UCT, a charming, quirky guy named Russell would approach her and gallantly present her with a single rose. He was persistent, funny, and utterly unique. Ally was flattered, but eventually, she had to break the news: "I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

Russell, being the gentleman he is, backed off immediately, but he and Ally remained friendly. Then, the day came when I finally met the man who had been "wooing" my girlfriend.

I didn't feel a shred of jealousy. Instead, I immediately fell for him.

He was hilarious, adventurous, and possessed a spark of madness that matched my own. Our "bromance" was instantaneous. Ally and I stayed together for the next seventeen years, and throughout that time, Russell was the third pillar of our lives. He even moved in as our housemate for several years—a period I still count among the most enjoyable and laughter-filled times of my life.

Ally and I eventually went our separate ways in 2009, but my bond with Russell remained unshakable. Even now, living in different countries, our friendship is priceless. Whenever I return home to visit family, we don't just "catch up" over coffee; we disappear into the mountains or head off on some new adventure, picking up exactly where we left off on the Jamie Steps.

Memorable moments: The wrong foot

We were gathered for a proper family meal—Mum, Jo, Antony, Gran, Gramps, and my girlfriend (and future wife), Ally. The atmosphere was warm, the conversation was flowing, and I was feeling particularly romantic.

Deciding to share a private, flirtatious moment with Ally, I quietly slipped my shoe off under the table. I reached out with my foot, searching for hers, and began a gentle, rhythmic game of "footsie." I was quite pleased with myself; it felt like a sophisticated, silent connection in the middle of a busy Sunday lunch.

Suddenly, I noticed a change in the atmosphere above the mahogany.

Gran looked up from her roast potatoes and locked eyes with Gramps. A beautiful, radiant smile spread across her face—a look of absolute, rekindled love that I hadn't seen in years. It was the kind of look usually reserved for silver wedding anniversaries or wartime reunions.

Gramps looked back at her, smiling kindly, but he had a look of profound and utter confusion in his eyes. He clearly had no idea what had prompted this sudden outburst of grandmotherly affection.

In a sudden, startling flash of realization, the physics of the seating chart hit me. I wasn't playing footsie with Ally at all. I had overshot the mark by about twelve inches and was currently massaging Gran’s support stockings with my big toe.

I sat there, frozen, realizing I had accidentally become the most romantic thing to happen to Gran’s feet since 1954. I gently retracted my foot, put my shoe back on, and spent the rest of the meal staring very intently at my gravy, while Gran continued to beam at a bewildered Gramps for the next forty-five minutes.

Memorable moments: The millionaire mockery

Brothers Russell and Roger are among my closest friends, and our friendship has always been fueled by a mutual love for the well-executed prank. In 1999, when Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? first exploded onto South African television, the stakes for our brand of mischief reached an all-time high.

Both brothers possess prodigious general knowledge, having honed their trivia skills through years of grueling pub quizzes. Russell was the first to take the plunge. He applied for the show and, a month later, received the coveted "screening call." The producers filtered contestants with a numerical logic question—something like, "How many standard bricks would it take to pave a tennis court?" You had to deduce the answer on the spot; the closest estimates won a seat in the studio.

Russell made the cut. We all tuned in to watch him dominate the "Fastest Finger First" round and take the hot seat. He was brilliant, breezing through the levels until a tricky question about the Winter Olympics finally stumped him. He retired with a cool R32,000—not a bad haul for a single night’s work.

Naturally, Roger was itching to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The competitive fire was lit, which provided Russell and me with the perfect opening.

I have a bit of a knack for voices, so I called Roger’s house and adopted my most professional, "Stacey-from-the-production-office" tone.

"Hello, Roger. This is the production team for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? We are currently screening for our next round of contestants. As you know, we require you to logically deduce a numerical answer. The closest contestant to the correct figure will be invited to the studio."

Roger was instantly beside himself with excitement. He was hooked.

"The question for you, Roger, is this: Exactly how many pages are there in total in the complete 32-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica?"

"Oh... oh dear," Roger stammered. "Let me see... can I confer with my friend here for a moment?"

"You have sixty seconds," I replied frostily.

What followed was pure comedic gold. We could hear them frantically whispering in the background, trying to calculate the average thickness of a volume, the density of the paper, and the likely page count per inch. It was a masterpiece of desperate, high-speed mathematics.

Finally, Roger came back to the phone, sounding breathless but confident. He delivered a number he had practically sweated over—something incredibly specific, like 32,640.

I stayed perfectly in character. I let the silence hang for a long, dramatic beat.

"Thank you, Roger," I said, my voice dripping with official gravity. "Now, for the tie-breaker: How many individual feathers are on a standard, adult South African Ostrich?"

That was the breaking point. There was a beat of stunned silence before Roger started to protest. "Wait... what? Is that even logically deducible? How on earth could I—"

At that moment, Russell and I both lost it. The "production office" collapsed into a fit of hysterical giggles as I dropped the accent. Roger was fuming for a solid minute, his brain still stuck in "Encyclopedia" mode while we roared with laughter at the other end.

He didn't get the R32,000, and he certainly didn't get to the hot seat, but he did eventually see the funny side. It turns out that while he knew everything about the world’s most famous encyclopedia, he’d completely forgotten the first rule of our friendship: Never trust a phone call from Russell and Graeme.

Memorable moments: The Bainskloof break-in

Russell, Roger, and I were heading to Bainskloof for a camping weekend in the mountains. The journey was already a triumph; we were in such high spirits that when "What the World Needs Now Is Love" came on the radio, we blasted the volume, pulled over to the side of the road, and performed a full-throttle celebratory dance in the dust.

After a glorious, lingering swim in the river, we finally reached the campsite entrance. It was well after 8:00 PM—the strict cutoff time when the wilderness gates are closed and locked for the night.

We stood before the towering fence, miles from any other civilization, and faced a grim reality: we were stranded. Refusing to let the night end in the car, we resolved to "infiltrate" our own campsite. What followed was a precarious, sweating, multi-stage operation. We hoisted heavy coolers, tangled tents, and sleeping bags over the high wire, clambering up and over like a very poorly coordinated SWAT team.

It took a considerable amount of time and effort to get the gear and the first two of us over. Finally, it was Roger’s turn. He made the climb, navigated the drop, and landed heavily on the "inner" side of the fence. As he stumbled back to regain his footing, his shoulder thudded against the massive gate.

With a slow, effortless creak, the gate swung wide open.

It hadn't been locked. It was just... closed. We had spent forty-five minutes risking our necks and our gear to scale a mountain fortress that was, in reality, welcoming us in with an unlocked door. I suppose the world does need love, but that night, what we really needed was to just try the handle.

Memorable moments: The birth of Discombob

You may wonder how a man gets a nickname as singular as "Discombob." It wasn't born on a sports field or in a classroom; it was forged in the high-pressure, slightly surreal doldrums of a call center for an online gambling company.

To stave off the boredom of explaining "betting requirements" and "connection timeouts" for the thousandth time, Russell and his fellow agents invented a secret game: The Word of the Day. The rule was simple—you had to shoehorn a completely ridiculous, multi-syllabic word into a professional call with a client without getting caught or losing your cool.

One Tuesday, Russell nominated "Discombobulated."

For most, it’s a word used once a year in a crossword puzzle. For Russell, it was a specialized tool. He didn't just use it; he orchestrated it. With the gravitas of a seasoned pit boss, he’d lean into the mic and tell a frantic gambler on the other end of the line:

"I completely understand your frustration, sir. It is remarkably easy to feel discombobulated by the ethereal nature of digital slot rotations. Let’s see if we can re-combobulate your account balance together, shall we?"

By midday, the office was in physical pain from suppressed laughter. Russell managed to drop the word into over a dozen calls, sounding so absurdly professional that the bewildered callers—many of whom were already in a state of high-stakes stress—actually started agreeing with his "discombobulation" theory.

Russell didn’t just win the game; he rebranded himself. From that day forward, he was Discombob, a man who proved that even in the dullest call center, you’re only ever one ridiculous word away from a legend.

Memorable moments: The bitter truth

On our way back to Cape Town after a weekend at the Breede River, Russell and I pulled over at a picturesque olive farm. As we strolled toward the farm shop, Russell stopped by a heavily laden tree, reached out, and plucked a plump, dark olive.

He popped it into his mouth and began to chew with a look of pure, Mediterranean relish. "Ooh," he hummed, nodding with approval, "the olives here are absolutely delicious. You have to try one."

I didn't hesitate. I reached for the nearest branch, picked a beautiful-looking specimen, and bit down hard.

The taste was instantaneous and catastrophic. It wasn't just "bitter"—it was a violent, astringent assault on my taste buds that felt like chewing on a piece of toxic chalk soaked in battery acid. I didn't just spit it out; I launched it. The half-masticated olive flew a good five metres across the grove in a projectile arc of pure regret.

Russell immediately erupted in giggles. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and revealed his own olive—completely untouched and tucked safely under his tongue.

"Ha ha! Got you!" he crowed, finally letting the prop fall to the grass.

I stood there with a mouth that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, watching him double over with laughter. I’ve since learned that olives must be cured in brine or lye for months before they are remotely edible; unfortunately, I learned it the Russell way.

Memorable moments: The red face and the grin

For reasons that seemed logical at the time, Russell and I stood in the kitchen and decided to settle a debt of honor: a chili-eating competition. The rules were simple—one lethal-looking bird's eye chili each, consumed simultaneously on the count of three.

"One... two... three!" Russell barked, his face a mask of competitive intensity.

I didn't hesitate. I bit down hard, releasing a capsaicin explosion that felt like swallowing a lit blowtorch. Within seconds, the heat was formidable. My vision blurred, my throat constricted, and I felt my face turn a shade of crimson that probably matched the chili itself.

Gagging and desperate, I didn't even have to leave the room. I lunged for the fridge, ripped it open, and grabbed a liter of milk. I chugged it with the frantic energy of a man whose life depended on dairy, milk splashing down my chin as I tried to douse the five-alarm fire in my gullet.

Finally, as the internal blaze subsided into a smoldering ruin, I wiped the milk from my mouth and turned to see how my opponent had fared.

Russell was leaning casually against the counter, looking remarkably cool, calm, and—crucially—completely un-charred. I looked down at his hand. His chili remained perfectly intact, without so much as a tooth mark on it.

He looked at my tear-streaked, milk-mustachioed face and flashed a wide, shameless grin.

"You win!" he chirped.

They say a true friend shares your pain. Russell, apparently, prefers to just supervise it from a safe distance with a front-row seat.