Memorable moments: Mustard, screwdrivers, and wet dreams

Dad was never the flamboyant, life-of-the-party type. Left entirely to his own devices, he wanted nothing more than to retreat into the quiet solitude of his workshop, spending uninterrupted hours milling brass and steel for his beloved steam locomotives.

In large social gatherings, his natural shyness took over. Even at the legendary braais hosted by his friend Stan—who lived right on the beach in Melkbosstrand and had an actual miniature train track winding through his garden—Dad was often the quiet, observant figure lingering gently on the periphery rather than commanding the room.

Yet introversion was only half the picture. With a select circle of close companions, he completely blossomed.

Around people like Derek, his dental partner John Sawkins, and especially Jimmy—a lovely, elderly friend who lived just down our road by the local park—Dad was warm, utterly relaxed, and full of effortless camaraderie. In those intimate settings, there was endless laughter.

You see, Dad’s quiet reserve was paired with a wicked, playful sense of fun that leaned unapologetically toward the cheeky, naughty side. Whenever he launched into a joke or an irreverent anecdote, those striking green eyes would dance and sparkle. More often than not, he’d find his own punchlines so genuinely hilarious that his laughter would dissolve into an affectionate, wheezing coughing fit before he could even finish the sentence.

That mischievous streak was on full display every Christmas morning.

Dad delighted in wrapping practical items in cheeky double entendres. One year, he handed me a carefully wrapped package with a tag that read: "To help with your screwing technique." Inside was a brand-new set of screwdrivers. Another year, he presented Gramps with a parcel marked: "For a man who likes a bit on the side"—which was, of course, a jar of English mustard.

His cheeky imagination peaked when I was invited to a 21st birthday party by a ballroom dancing friend named Sally.

The invitation called for fancy dress with the theme "Dream Time: dress as your favorite dream or your worst nightmare." It was ripe for creative interpretation. When I mentioned the dilemma at home, Dad didn't miss a beat.

"Put on a pair of pyjamas, jump fully clothed into the shower, and go as a wet dream!" he offered with a grin.

As brilliant as the concept was, a soaking-wet pair of flannel pyjamas on a freezing Cape Town winter night felt like a swift route to hypothermia. Sally and I opted for the warmer, safer route, heading into town to a costume hire shop instead.

Dad’s irreverent wit remains one of the qualities I cherish most about my memories of him. Behind the quiet exterior, the conservative shirts, and the steady dentist's hands was a man who saw the absurd, playful side of human nature and refused to take life too seriously. It was a wonderful legacy to grow up around—and the very spark from which I inherited my own lifelong love of humor and mischief.

Memorable moments: Parallel tracks

Dad was extraordinarily mechanical—so much so that he carried a quiet, lifelong regret about choosing dentistry over engineering.

Around the house, he was endlessly handy, keeping household appliances humming and personally servicing the engines of his red Beetle and mustard Variant with consummate ease. But his true mechanical genius reached its zenith in his backyard workshop. Amidst the sharp tang of machine oil, turning lathes, and racks of precision drill bits, Dad pursued his greatest passion: engineering miniature, fully functional, coal-fired steam locomotives from scratch.

These weren't flimsy models; they were heavy, magnificent works of industrial art. Engineered to precise scale, a single locomotive took him years of patient milling to complete and possessed enough genuine boiler power to haul seven fully grown adults around a club track.

Naturally, Dad harbored a deep, unspoken hope that his son would inherit the mechanical torch.

Alas, genetics had other ideas. I simply did not inherit that gene. Years later, when I sat for a comprehensive career aptitude test, the results laid it out in cold, indisputable numbers: I scored comfortably above average in nearly every category, except mechanical reasoning—where I landed squarely in the bottom ten percent.

To Dad, who could read an engine diagram like a second language, my total ineptitude with tools occasionally brought him close to despair. He would look on with quiet disappointment as nuts, bolts, and spark plugs failed to ignite even a flicker of curiosity in me.

Thankfully, the mechanical gods sent an apprentice in the form of our close family friend, Julian. Julian was gifted with the exact engineering instinct I lacked. He and Dad bonded effortlessly over calipers, blueprints, and lathe chucks, forging a rich, shared passion. Dad happily mentored him through his projects, and Julian eventually went on to become a professional engineer.

Yet for all my aversion to spanners and gear teeth, I still carried a genuine fascination with the magic of trains, particularly steam locomotives.

I loved climbing aboard the carriages behind Dad’s hand-built engines as they chugged around the club circuit. I cherished the sensory joy of the open-air miniature railway on the Sea Point promenade—riding the little engine along the Atlantic shoreline, the salty breeze in our faces right after a visit to San Marco for ice cream.

The breakthrough moment arrived on an afternoon Dad drove me to a local hobby shop to pick out my very first Lima model train set.

Inside the shop, the gap between engineer and dreamer vanished. We stood before the glass display cases equally starry-eyed, buzzing with the exact same boyish excitement. He admired the scale accuracy and the motor design; I fell in love with the sheer poetry of the rolling stock.

Back home, I cleared space in the storeroom immediately adjacent to Dad's workshop and laid down an expansive electric track.

Over the years that followed, as I steadily built up a magnificent collection of carriages and engines, an easy harmony settled over that corner of the back yard behind the house. Through the adjoining doorway, Dad would spend long, contented hours turning brass and steel for his heavy steam engines, while I spent hours orchestrating schedules and watching my electric Lima train glide across the miniature rails.

I was never going to turn a brass cylinder on a lathe, but in those quiet afternoons beside the hum of the transformer, father and son were finally running on parallel tracks.

Max Dupain photography exhibition at the NSW State Library

I went to an exhibition of Max Dupain’s photography at the State Library of NSW. One of Australia’s most celebrated photographers, Dupain (1911–1992) helped shape the country’s visual identity through his images of its people, architecture and everyday life. His famous photograph Sunbaker, taken in 1937, became an enduring symbol of Australian beach culture. The exhibition spans his sixty-year career, bringing together iconic images alongside portraits, experimental work and more intimate photographs of family holidays and the natural world.

Lori Graeme photography exhibition at the State Library of NSW

I went to an exhibition of Lorrie Graham’s photography at the State Library of NSW. One of Australia’s pioneering photojournalists, she began her career in 1975 as the first female photography cadet at The Sydney Morning Herald. Over five decades, her work has captured public figures, significant events and everyday lives, both in Australia and overseas. Curated by Graham herself, the exhibition brings together photographs from across her remarkable career.