Memorable moments: The midnight hero of Willow Road

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The Willow Road welcome

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The nightmare cure

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The mile-high monologue

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

I hit the power button.

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: A paste-y complexion

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The searing truth

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

One handful later, my mouth was an inferno.

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The day the lightbulb went on

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

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

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

Then, I hit a certain age.

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

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

Memorable moments: The pocket saboteur

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

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

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

Then, my hand brushed against my trousers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came the silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The most electric kiss of my life

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memorable moments: The lift fiasco

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

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

The doors didn't budge.

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

Then, a calm voice drifted in from behind me.

"Can we help you?"

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

Needless to say, I made quite an entrance.

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

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

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

The cars I've owned

I'm not a big car person. For me, they are something to get from A to B. But here for the record are the cars I've owned.  Most of them have been Toyotas. I love Toyotas for the simple reason they usually just keep going.

Toyota Corolla 1985

• Named: Gertrude
• Owned: 1998 - 1993
  
• Where bought: Cape Town

Toyota Corona 1993

• Named: Sylvia
• Owned 1993 - 2000
• Where bought: Cape Town
  
  

Toyota Corolla 2001

• Owned 2006 - 2017
• Where bought: Melbourne (then driven to Sydney)
  

Honda CRV 2002

• Owned 2017 - 2024
• Where bought: Sydney (from Jilly)

Memorable moments: Dessert heaven

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

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

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

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

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

Darlinghurst Gaol and art exhibition

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

King's Cross

Darlinghurst Gaol

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

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

Art exhibition at the art school

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

Darlinghurst

Walk to Town Hall station