John, Sandy and Nancy from my Photography Meetup joined me on a photo walk around the rocks with a new photography group called We Are Observers. The theme for the evening was "photographing fives". It was a fun evening in a local haunt that is always full of interesting things to photograph.
Shushann had to go out for the day so I dropped by her home in Coogee at lunchtime to give Nushi some company. We went for a lovely walk to the park where I met lots of other lovely dogs and their owners.
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| How cute is this little guy! |
"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!
In South Africa, the Matric Dance is the undisputed peak of the school social calendar. It’s a night of high-stakes glamour, tuxedos, and floor-length gowns. I went with a childhood friend, Wendy, but my close friend Tony was in a bit of a bind. Tony was the academic titan of our year—frighteningly intelligent and always top of the class—but he was a bit of a nerd and lacked the social "processing power" to find a date.
Feeling for him, I offered up my sister, Jo. She was gorgeous, lovely, and possessed a non-judgmental patience that I knew would be the perfect safety net for Tony.
The night began perfectly. We all looked the part in our formal gear, the atmosphere was electric, and the girls looked spectacular. Then, the music started, and the "disaster" began to unfold on the dance floor.
Tony, whom I had never seen move faster than a brisk walk toward a library, didn’t so much find the rhythm as he did a pace. Being tall and gangly, he didn't sway or step. He jogged. He began to lunge up and down on the spot with giant, athletic strides—arms pumping and legs churning with the mechanical efficiency of a cross-country runner.
Poor Jo was dutifully in tow, trying to maintain some semblance of a dance while Tony treated the disco lights like a finish line. After about an hour of this high-intensity cardio, Jo and I managed a quick sidebar. She was breathless but smiling, her legendary patience still intact.
"My God," she whispered, "he must have clocked up at least ten kilometers by now!"
It was a classic "Tony" moment. He had approached the dance floor with the same relentless focus he applied to his exams, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in the room treating a slow ballad like a qualifying heat for the Olympics.
In her later years, Gran’s driving slowed to a pace that could generously be described as “contemplative.”
One Saturday morning we were making our way along Claremont Main Road—normally a chaotic, bumper-to-bumper affair. Shops buzzing, taxis darting, people everywhere. Except, according to Gran, it wasn’t.
She peered out over the steering wheel and said, with genuine wonder, “Gosh… the road is almost empty. I wonder where all the cars are.”
I had a quiet look in the rearview mirror.
“They’re not lost, Gran,” I thought. “They’ve just… formed a respectful procession behind you.”
When I was young, I was quite the pilferer. Looking back, I'm genuinely surprised it didn't lead to a full-blown life of crime. My operations were divided into two distinct categories: the sophisticated, high-stakes heist and the reckless, sugary smash-and-grab.
The flaked almonds were my "Ocean’s Eleven" moment. I would wait until the kitchen was empty, then strike. First, I’d liberate a razor blade from my father’s bathroom cupboard. With the precision of a diamond cutter, I’d slice a microscopic slit into the side of my mother's almond packet, edging out the nuts one by one. I’d then seal the wound with a sliver of cellotape so perfectly that the packet looked untouched. It was a literal heist, and Mum never cottoned on.
My other ventures were significantly less subtle. I had a habit of raiding the freezer for Mum's chocolate, an addiction that once got her so irritated she sent me off on my bike to the local café to buy her a replacement with my own money.
But my undoing was the condensed milk. I would steal the tins, retreat to my room, and indulge in the thick, sugary loot. I was eventually busted when Mum discovered a mountain of discarded, empty tins hidden in the back of my own cupboard. To this day, I can’t remember why I didn’t think to discard the evidence.
In hindsight, my criminal career had a very clear pattern: brilliant entry, catastrophic exit.
The almond job was all finesse—silent, precise, almost artistic. The chocolate raids were impulsive but survivable. But the condensed milk… that was less “heist” and more “crime scene preservation.”
It turns out I wasn’t caught because I lacked intelligence. I was caught because, at some point, it simply stopped occurring to me that crimes should include an escape plan—or, at the very least, a rubbish bin.
Between 2010 and 2012, I taught English at an adult college in Sydney. My classrooms were a vibrant, global crossroads, and I was always fascinated by the predictable "nationalities" of conversation. The Brazilians were the life of the party—outgoing, loud, and happy to butcher every rule of grammar as long as the story was moving. The Koreans, by contrast, were the quiet architects; they were masters of the written rule but notoriously reserved when it came to speaking.
When the school asked if I’d take on a private Korean student for fifty hours of one-on-one conversation, I thought, Why not? I’ll never forget our first meeting. Merry was twenty, bright-eyed, and painfully shy. I arrived armed with an arsenal of conversation starters, "ice-breakers," and deep philosophical prompts. I leaned in and asked a simple, gentle question about her life.
She whispered a single monosyllable in a voice so tiny it barely disturbed the air.
A cold wave of "imposter panic" washed over me. I looked at the clock. There were forty-nine hours and fifty-nine minutes left. In that moment, I wished with all my heart for a boisterous Brazilian—someone who would talk over me, ignore my corrections, and fill the silence with a thousand cheerful errors. Trying to get a sentence out of this girl felt like trying to draw blood from a stone.
Slowly, however, things began to shift. Over the first few hours, I stopped pushing and started simply being the aware space for her silence. Bit by bit, the stone cracked. She began to trust the environment, her confidence grew, and the monosyllables turned into sentences, then stories, then profound insights into her culture.
By the end of the fifty hours, we weren't just practicing English; we were having some of the most amazing conversations of my teaching career. It was a powerful reminder that while some students lead with an immediate, exuberant energy, the quietest ones often hold the deepest truths—if you are willing to provide the space and patience for them to finally emerge.
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| Me and Merry |
I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.
Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"
After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.
My father was not most people.
We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.
Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.
In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.
I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.
When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.
Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.
The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.
My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.
He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.
I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.
A couple of years ago, I went to watch a Nirvana cover band with a group of my hiking friends. Among us was Srini, a wonderful chap originally from India. Srini is a brilliant man, but as English is not his first language, his phrasing can occasionally take a detour into the unintentionally hilarious.
The band was incredible—pure, high-octane energy. The lead singer was giving it his all, thrashing around the stage until the sweat was literally dripping off him. When the band took a well-earned ten-minute break, the venue was buzzing.
Srini headed off to the loo and found himself standing at the urinal right next to the lead singer. The performer was still panting, drenched in the after-effects of a frantic set. Srini, being the friendly soul he is, wanted to acknowledge the man’s Herculean effort. He intended to say something sympathetic like, "Wow, you must be thirsty!"
Instead, he turned to the singer and asked in a polite, conversational tone:
"Hi, are you feeling thirsty?"
In the dimly lit, sweat-soaked atmosphere of a pub bathroom, the phrasing landed with a very different resonance than Srini intended. The lead singer froze, clearly convinced he was being hit on in the middle of a private moment.
He didn't stick around to discuss his hydration levels. He made a bewildered, hasty retreat, leaving Srini standing there, entirely unaware that he had just accidentally auditioned for the role of the band’s most forward groupie.
In Sydney, the cockroaches aren't just pests; they are armored invaders. They are enormous, incredibly fast, and—for me—a source of primal horror. They seem to possess a sentient malevolence that defies the usual "it's more scared of you" logic.
One afternoon, I found a particularly large specimen lying belly-up on the kitchen floor. It was perfectly still, its legs stiff and its antennae frozen. It was stone-dead. I saw this as a golden opportunity. I decided to use the power of mindfulness to finally conquer my phobia using this harmless, discarded shell of a creature. I would be the "aware space" for my fear.
I hesitantly scooped the carcass up and placed it on my upturned palm. I stood there, breathing deeply, feeling the tension drain out of my shoulders. I felt the dry, brittle sensation of the legs against my skin—a mere physical sensation, nothing more. I focused on the horror, welcoming it, observing it without judgment. Breathing in, breathing out. Gradually, a great, meditative calm washed over me. I had done it. I had transcended the insect.
And then the sucker moved.
It didn't just twitch; it wriggled violently, its prehistoric legs suddenly churning against my skin with a frantic, tickling energy. The "corpse" was suddenly very much alive and clearly offended by my spiritual experiment.
The "aware space" collapsed instantly. Like a scalded cat, I let out a blood-curdling shriek. My hand whipped upward with the force of a spring-loaded trap, launching the creature into the stratosphere. My journey into Zen ended in a frantic, undignified dance across the kitchen tiles.
People say mindfulness can change your relationship with your fears. They're right. Before that day, I was merely horrified by cockroaches; ever since, my horror has been massively compounded by the knowledge that they are capable of playing dead just to mock my progress toward enlightenment.
During my university years, I lived in constant awe of my housemate, Oliver. He was studying Business Science Finance—a notoriously grueling course that demanded mathematical precision and endless hours of focus—yet he navigated it with what seemed like the absolute minimum amount of effort. Oliver didn't just leave his studying to the last minute; he seemed to leave it entirely to chance.
I remember one night in particular when he was trying to decide how to spend his evening. He pulled out a coin and announced his strategy:
"If it’s heads, I go to the movies. If it’s tails, I go to bed. If it stands on its edge, I study."
I watched him live life to the full, seemingly unburdened by the academic pressures that kept me awake at night. Despite this breathtakingly relaxed approach to one of the hardest degrees at UCT, he graduated and immediately landed a prestigious job at Morgan Stanley. He was simply one of those people—blessed with the kind of innate talent that meant he never actually had to see that coin stand on its edge.
On a perfect Cape Town day, Ally, some friends, and I made the beautiful trek along the Atlantic coast to Sandy Bay. Being a nudist beach, the experience requires a level of tactical preparation that a standard trip to Clifton does not.
I was meticulous. I was incredibly careful to apply layers of sunscreen to my "privates," knowing that parts of me usually shrouded in textiles were about to face the harsh African sun for the first time. I was also on high alert with the refreshments. Ally had brought a flask of hot coffee, and I sat with the posture of a statue; I’ve always been inclined to spill drinks in my lap, and I knew that a scalding coffee mishap in the nude would be a disaster from which I might never recover.
When I hit the water, I was equally cautious. There was a bit of a rip that day, so I kept my boogy boarding to the safer, shallower breaks. I felt like a master of risk management.
However, nature always finds the gap in your defenses.
Despite all my careful planning, the day ended in a two-front tactical failure. First, I discovered that the relentless friction of boogy boarding in the nude is a biological error; the wax and the board combined to give me a rather nasty, agonizing rash on my most intimate areas.
Second, I realized that in my obsessive quest to protect the "valuables" with sunscreen, I had completely neglected the surrounding territory. I had left a wide, unprotected ring around my naked hips. While my center was safely shielded, my hips were glowing a radioactive shade of crimson.
I walked back from the beach that day with a very specific, wide-legged gait—partly to soothe the rash and partly because my burnt hips couldn't bear the touch of my own clothes. It was a painful reminder that no matter how much you prepare for the "big" risks, it’s the small, overlooked details that usually get you in the end.
When I was sixteen, I went on a school trip to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. It was a sensory-overloaded, extraordinary experience—gliding through secret waterways in a dugout canoe and watching the wildlife drift past.
However, the reality of camping on an island in the Delta involved a fair amount of "suffer-fest" labor. We were a participatory group, which meant everyone shared the chores. The worst of these was the washing up. With no detergent and no hot water, trying to scrub the grease off metal pots and plates was an exercise in futility and frustration. One of my classmates, Peter, took a particular dislike to the task, spending most of the first night complaining bitterly about the state of our cookware.
On the second night, exhausted and defeated by the grime, we were given permission to leave the dirty pots and plates until the morning light.
In the middle of the night, the atmosphere shifted. A clan of hyenas arrived, circling our tents with their eerie, guttural chortling. I remember the smell—it was thick, wild, and incredibly pungent. Lying in my sleeping bag, listening to them sniff around just inches from the canvas, was terrifying. Eventually, the sounds faded, and the "smelly" visitors disappeared into the bush.
The next morning, we braced ourselves for the greasy cleanup. Instead, we found that our cookware had undergone a professional-grade restoration. Every single pot and plate had been scoured to a mirror finish. The hyenas had spent the night using their incredibly raspy tongues—which would have put any metal scourer to shame—to lick every molecule of fat from the metal.
While the rest of us were still shaking off the fear of the night's visitors, Peter was absolutely ecstatic.
"We’ve solved it!" he shouted, holding up a sparkling pot. "We can do this again tonight! No more need to clean the plates!"
Back in Cape Town, Russell, Roger, and I had a regular, somewhat clandestine ritual: the Sex Quiz in Observatory. It was held in a private basement area of a local pub, tucked away from the more "prudish" patrons upstairs.
The highlight of the night was a round where the quizmaster would play snippets from various adult films. The challenge was simple: guess what happened next. You earned a point for a correct answer, and another if your guess was funny enough to make the room roar. To facilitate this "educational" exercise, a TV was mounted high on the basement wall.
One night, we were deep into the third snippet—a particularly explicit scene that required some creative guesswork. Suddenly, a flustered pub staff member came sprinting down the stairs, looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least something he wasn't supposed to).
He spoke urgently to the quizmaster, who hit the "Stop" button with panicked speed.
It turned out that the pub’s technical team had forgotten one crucial detail that evening: they hadn't separated the TV feeds. Throughout the entire building—including the main bar and the quiet family restaurant upstairs—every screen was showing our "private" quiz content.
It was the ultimate reminder that in life, just when you think you’re in a private "basement" of your own making, the rest of the world might just be watching the broadcast.
When I was seventeen, my family flew to Mauritius for a holiday. We touched down at the airport in Port Louis and boarded a bus to be transported to our hotel. Almost immediately, the journey took on a life-threatening quality. The driver operated the vehicle like a bat out of hell, hurtling down the center of the road with terrifying speed.
My mum, who has never been a calm passenger at the best of times, was visibly shaken. We were all sitting right at the front of the bus, giving us a panoramic view of what appeared to be impending doom. As we gripped our seats, we noticed that we weren't alone; many of the other cars were also straddling the white lines, treating the two lanes as one giant suggestion.
My dad, trying to make sense of the chaos, finally spoke up. "Wow," he said to the driver, "everyone seems to drive right in the middle of the road here!"
The driver let out a hearty laugh, not even slowing his pace.
"Yes!" he shouted over the engine. "You see, when the French colonized our island, they forced us to drive on the right. Then the English came and they forced us to drive on the left. Now that we are independent, we drive in the middle!"
It was the perfect lesson in post-colonial logic. While the diplomats were busy drafting constitutions, the bus drivers of Mauritius had found their own way to express their freedom: by occupying every inch of the asphalt at ninety kilometers an hour.
During my time at Volvo’s UK headquarters in Duxford, I was part of a high-pressure team tasked with redesigning the global corporate website. One morning, in our hushed, open-plan office, I prepared to pull up the live site at volvo.com for a quick reference check. My fingers flew across the keys, but just as I hit "Enter," a phone call distracted me.
I looked away to answer, leaving the page to load in full view of the room. A few seconds later, my colleague Andre Pocock leaned over, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.
"My goodness, Graeme," he hissed, "what on earth are you looking at?"
I turned back to my screen and felt a jolt of pure, corporate-grade horror. Instead of the safe, Swedish lines of a family station wagon, I was staring at a giant, high-definition, and very explicit anatomical image.
In my distracted state, my fingers had betrayed me. I hadn't typed the home of the "Iron Mark"; I had swapped the two vowels in volvo with other letters and navigated directly to a site that was much more "biological" than "automotive."
The contrast between Volvo’s brand values and the screen in front of me was absolute. I managed to kill the window before the rest of the department could wander over, but for the rest of my tenure, I never hit the "Enter" key again without the realization that you can't navigate life—or the internet—without a great deal of care.
Music washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life. Red Auerbach
Music, to me, is one of the great gifts of being alive. Nothing makes me feel like music and often it facilitates a sacred release. My preferred way of listening to music is to play it through my headphones and focus mindfully on the music alone, as a form of meditation. At times, I also like to listen to instrumental music while I work.
On a visit back to Cape Town, Ally and I were invited to the annual Christmas party of the "Hardcore Hiking Group," a tribe of adventurers we’d belonged to for years. Usually, our friend James—a naturally funny guy—played the role of Santa. But this year, James couldn't make it. As the visiting guest, I was bestowed with the great privilege of the red suit.
I donned the beard, padded the stomach, and made my grand entrance. I decided to channel the boisterous, floor-shaking energy of my grandfather, but as I stepped into the room, something shifted. I let out a deep, booming, guttural roar that echoed off the walls:
"HO! HO! HO! WHO’S BEEN GOOD AND WHO’S BEEN BAD THIS YEAR?!"
It was, in retrospect, terrifying. Instead of a "jolly old elf," I sounded like a vengeful mountain deity who had come to settle a debt. My "heartiness" was so intense it felt like a physical threat. A wave of pure, unadulterated horror swept through the room. Several toddlers immediately burst into tears, while others dove for cover behind their parents' legs, convinced that this massive, shouting red man was there to take them away. It was a demographic disaster.
However, when the sun went down and the "Adult Santa" session began, my frightening intensity finally found its proper audience. The hikers, fueled by Christmas spirit, were a much more receptive crowd for my brand of storytelling. The darker the innuendo, the louder the laughs.
"I know you’ve been bad," I told one regular hiker, "so let’s dispense with the small talk, little lady."
I leaned into the role with gusto, fielding requests with lines like:
By the time the night was over, the room was in hysterics. I realized then that while I might be a nightmare-inducing prospect for a four-year-old, I make an excellent Santa for the over-eighteen crowd.
In 2006, when Ally and I first arrived in Sydney, we rented an apartment on the 14th floor of Blues Point Tower. It was an imposing, 25-story landmark—so famous it even featured in Finding Nemo as a standout piece of the Sydney skyline. With the Opera House framed perfectly in our kitchen window, we truly felt we had arrived.
One night, I was standing at the sink doing the washing up, staring out at the harbor lights. Suddenly, a dark shape blurred past the glass. My heart stopped. A body had just fallen past my window from the floors above.
The shock was total. I was certain I had just witnessed a suicide. I craned my neck, pressed my face to the glass, and watched as the figure hurtled toward the ground at a terrifying speed. I braced myself for the impact.
Then, at the very last possible second—incredibly close to the pavement—a massive parachute exploded open. The figure hit the ground in a controlled flurry of nylon, gathered the chute together in a single, practiced motion, and sprinted off into the night.
It wasn't a tragedy; it was a BASE jumper.
I stood there with a soapy plate in my hand, completely stunned. It was my first real introduction to the Australian spirit of adventure: some people don't just admire the view from a landmark—they throw themselves off it for fun.
In 2005, Ally and I flew from the gray skies of London to Croatia for a short break, desperate for some Mediterranean sun and the famous crystal-blue water. We checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, and immediately headed for the balcony to soak in the "gorgeous" view.
The view, however, was not quite what the brochure had promised.
As we looked out, an enormous, very white man walked past directly below us, speaking loudly in German. He was entirely, unapologetically nude. A moment later, several more naked people strolled by. It turned out our hotel didn't just have a sea view; it looked directly onto a nudist beach. We soon discovered that nudity is a massive part of Croatian culture—in some areas, there are more nudist beaches than "textile" ones.
True to the "When in Rome" spirit, we decided to embrace the local customs. We spent our days lapping up the sun; Ally went topless, and I went entirely nude. Ally even took a few cheeky photos of me standing on the shore, proudly showing off my pearly white buttocks against the Adriatic blue.
When we got back to London, I was eager to share the trip with my family. This was in the era before social media, so I sat down late one night to email a selection of photos to my mum in Cape Town.
The next day, I received a reply: "Lovely photos, Graeme, but that last one is rather porno!"
In my late-night exhaustion, I had completely forgotten the golden rule of travel photography: always curate your "mother-friendly" folder before hitting send. I had inadvertently sent my mother a high-resolution portrait of her son’s Croatian "full moon."
Ally and I once rented kayaks for a two-day trip down the river in Kangaroo Valley with some friends. It started pleasantly enough, but soon a biting, chilly wind picked up, turning the excursion into what I call a "suffer-fest." I was exhausted, cold, and thoroughly miserable; Ally felt exactly the same. In the depths of our shivering, we made a solemn pact: we would never do a long overnight kayak trip ever again.
We survived the first day, dragged the kayaks onto the bank, and collapsed.
The next morning, the world had reset. The sun was out, the air was still, and the river was glass. We spent the day laughing and swimming, drifting through a landscape that felt like a postcard. As we pulled up at the final destination, I turned to Ally with genuine enthusiasm and said, "Wow, let’s do this again soon!"
I’ve noticed this trend in my life. Whether I’m trudging up an endless, steep hill or swimming through an icy canyon with the cold pummeling through my wetsuit, there is a voice in my head that mocks: "Wow, Graeme, you do this for fun!"
Yet, at the end, I always feel euphoric. I am consistently, stubbornly glad I did it.
I’ve researched this quirk of the human psyche. It turns out we are biologically wired to weight our memories based on how an experience ends rather than the average of how it felt throughout. The old adage "All’s well that ends well" isn't just a comfort; it’s a primal truth. If it weren't for this selective memory—this "survival programming"—would any woman ever choose to have a second child?
Now, when my mind starts to complain about the discomfort of a hike or the bite of a cold canyon, I have a new mantra. I tell my brain: "Hush now. Let's reserve judgment for the end."
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.
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.
In 2006, Ally, Russell, and I were in Rio de Janeiro, soaking up the vibrant energy of the city. One evening, we found ourselves at an authentic Brazilian restaurant. Russell and I, feeling particularly bold, decided on a strategic approach to the menu: we would share two meals—one "super adventurous" dish for the story, and one "normal" dish to actually fill our stomachs.
For the adventure, we ordered bull's testicles. For the "safe" backup, we chose a hearty pot of beef stew.
The food arrived, and we tackled the testicles first. To our surprise, they weren't too bad. They were fried in a light batter with a consistency remarkably similar to calamari. While they weren't exactly bursting with flavor, they were perfectly edible. We polished off a fair portion, thinking to ourselves, Adventure over. Now for the real meal.
I turned to the beef stew, expecting rich, tender comfort food. I took a large bite of the meat and was immediately hit by a taste so horrendous, so foul, that my survival instincts kicked in.
I pulled a chunk of "meat" out of the dark gravy to investigate the specimen. My heart sank. You could clearly see the intricate network of bronchioles; it was lung. I fished out the next piece: a distinct ventricle. It was heart. As I dug deeper, I found unmistakable sections of brain. The "hearty beef stew" was actually a literal anatomy lesson in a pot. It was like being back in my Zoology class doing a dissection.
It didn't just look terrifying; it tasted like a biological graveyard.
Russell and I shared a look of pure defeat. We slowly pushed the stew aside and turned our attention back to the remaining plate of bull's testicles. In the hierarchy of offal, the testicles had suddenly become the gourmet "safe" option—the only thing standing between us and a very hungry night.
Ally, who had wisely ordered a conventional, succulent steak with a side of chips, sat across from us, watched our struggle, and laughed until she cried.
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.
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.
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."
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!"
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
