Sydney Harbour Bridge

A lovely morning with the photography meetup group photographing Sydney from its most iconic landmark. I have done this walk across the Harbour Bridge so many times now, but I never grow tired of it. 

Photography around The Rocks

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.  

Looking after Nushi

 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.

How cute is this little guy!

Favourite meals

Food is a gift and should be treated reverentially - romanced and ritualized and seasoned with memory.  Chris Bohjalian

2025

Cape Town

• Cherries
• Greek restaurant: Octopus
• Peanut butter smoothie at Woodside
• Red Curry for Afrikaburn
• Cattle Baron Madagascar 300g fillet x 2
• Chicken and Prawn Curry with lychees (With Rory at Millers Thumb)
• Chocolate brownies
• Mum's Gammon and mustard sauce
• Wedgwood nougat
• Chorizo and pineapple pizza at St James
• Roasted vegetables at Hussar Grill
• Brandon's roast chicken with 6 vegetables
• Mums fridge cheesecake
• Jo's amazing salads including Thai salad
• Flame grilled chicken
• Chicken Sosaties from Checkers
• Salad and veg bowl in Kalk Bay with Sam
• Jo's marmite scones
• Braai buffet at Russell's board game friend's home
• Bacha Coffee almond and chocolate croissants at Singapore airport
• Naked Bowl at Dee Why
• Kirsten's Kick Ass Icecream

Sydney

• Octopus at Greek restaurant
• Turkish Grill in Newtown
• Roast pork in Blackheath after camping
• Lemon and rasberry magnum with white chocolate
• Pistachio donut at Chatswood
• Mushroom and avo on sourdough in Hornsby
• Croissant
• Pasta and stag chilly with cheese in Warrenbungles
• Lamb shank pie for $12.50 !!
• Fish Bowl Spicy salmon
• Michal's goulash cooked on the camp fire.
• Sausages and garlic butter when camping.
• Lebanese lamb shish
• Frozen yoghurt and nuts 

2024

• Raspberry tart @ Harrods, Doha
• Tender beef on Sylvia Earle
• Double thick peanut butter shake (Simons Town)
• Cattle Baron Fillet Madagascar (Cape Town)
• Frozen orange and mango at top of Devils's Peak (thanks Brandon!)
• Kirsten's Kick Ass Icecream: Cherry
• Kalk Bay ice cream: Cinnamon, ginger, cherry
• Salad at Third Rail during fast
• Kolfi with dried fruit (Grace of India)
• Roast chicken meal (Dom in Carcoar)
• Black cherries
• Balmoral grilled sea food (octopus, calamari, prawns)
• Frozen yoghurt with nuts and white chocolate
• Plougman's lunch in the Blue Mountains (Thank you Michelle and Petros)
• The Little Snail in Pyrmont: Kanagaroo steak
• Fish Bowl salmon
• Thai Beef Salad at the pub after tennis near St Peters station

2023

• Chocolate pannacotta & flake
• Banana and mango smoothy
• Mushroom on toast in Orange with Tina and Dom
• Take sushi with Tina, Dom, Shushann (x2)
• Passion Fruit cheesecake (Bamboo Buddha)
• Messina Icecream (Macedamia Nut Crunch, Lychee & Coconut)
• Steak final night Buenos Airies
• Roast chicken in Airfryer with Martin's seasoning
• Almond nougat (Cape Town)
• Duck, Pork Belly, Steak tapas at Silk (Cape Town)
• Peanut butter smoothie (Nepal & Woodside)
• Lassies in Kathmandu
• Mango and yoghurt
• Bowral hot donuts
• Prawn dumplings at home

2022

• Portuguese Charcoal chicken with Srini after hike
• Messina icecream
• Jo's coffee and rum & raisin icecream
• Thick chocolate milkshake in Cape Town
• Eat Greek prawn wrap after Coastal Track walk
• Cape Town meat & fish: Cattlebaron steak, Ocean Basket, Ribs at market
• Xmas feasts: Ruth: Duck, pork belly, chicken, amazing potato bake Xmas day at Shalow: Lemon curd trifle, turkey

2021

• Lamb after Dune
• Botanica breakfast bowl
• Four Cheese Toastie at The Flying Bear
• Love.Fish with Elna to celebrate new year

2019

• Prawn soup  (The Botanica)
• Ko Pla (Thai) with Brendan and Eva
• Ginger drink   (The Botanica)
• Oven roasted vegetables with smoked almonds (my speciality)
• Hummus and Mushrooms  (Grumpy Baker)
• Monkfish with Chris, Xenia, Christina, Shushan
• Meal at Devil’s Pools
• Jo’s rum and raisin ice-cream  

2016

• Ape Crepe & Malaysian Toast
• Botanica Quiche
• Pizza in Wilderness: Fig, blue cheese, ham

2015

• The Edge of the Bay. Seafood chowder, scollop liguine, choc mousse.
• Lamb salad with Liza (Jagos on Miller)
• Bondi Pizza (Parramatta lamb pizza and prawn and chorizo)
• Liz meal. Cheese, salami, tomato and onion pastry, goulash, sticky date pud
• Roast chicken, pumpkin, potato (made by Matt and Shamista)
• MaryAnn meal (pap starter, feshwado, granadilla mousse.)
• Cattle Baron (sirloin with bacon, avo, camembert), chocolate mousse
• Woodside with mum (steak n chips, calamari)
• Stormsriver ribs & Malva Pudding
• Big braai at Geoergian House
• Vetkoek
• Hogsback pizza
• Mutton pie and muffins (waiting for bus). Pancakes at Sani. 
• Amphithetre:  Butternut soup, pork belly, apple crumble and custard. 
• Best braai ever with Chrisel's family?  Ribs, steak, potato bake, carrot cake.  
• Lamb potjie (Amphitheatre, Utopia)
• Camps Bay Retreat:  Mushroom risotto, Kudu loin, chocolate mousse (with cereal?)
• I cooked lamb in slow cooker with red wine for family.
• Steak and chips at Brendan and Eva
• Veal at Casa Ristorante
• Indian food (Shamista)
• Thai restaurant with Srini (Duck curry)
• Chicken soup (I make for Chris, Jilly, Craig).
• Chicken soup. Jagos lamb salad with Liza
• Kirribili meals with Srini (lamb shanks, ribs)
• Botanica with Yogi - Almighty, lamb skewers, ginger drink.
• Botanica lamb skeers, All Mighty
• Eggs and toast

2013

Meals

• Salad at Brendan's
• Mexican at Eva and Brendan (lamb)
• Turkey Roast with Sue
• Thai duck at Waverton
• Dani's Belgian pancakes
• Turkey dinners with Sue
• My slow cooker meals (ossu buco , apricot chicken etc.)

Restaurants

• Fancy restaurant for scollops
• Mexican restaurant after Two Creeks
• Nepalese restaurant
• Spanish Tapas
• Thai (Neutral Bay)
• Radio Cairo
• French restaurant (anniversary)
• Nandos
• Bavarian Beer caffee (Pork belly with Andreas)

2012

• Mocha
• Pad See Ew 
• Dani's tiramisu
• Belgian waffles

Restaurant

• Thai Waverton
• Blue Mountains (Italian, Chinese)
• Mexican (after hike)

2006

• Bull's testicles
• Guineapig
• Offal hotpot (Brazil)
• Doug and Claudia's pepper-corn steak
• Buffet by weight (Rio)
• Torres del Paine fry up
• Seafood with Doug & Claudia
• Buenos Airies steak
• Lamb chops (El Calafate)
• Isla Grande self service icecream

2004 - 2005 

Food

• Iced coffee and vanilla frappocino at Liverpool Street
• Meal at web council
• lamb rack in Gothenberg - best lamb ever
• Volvo Thursday roasts
• Steve Fuhrter's strawberry juice
• Brooklands court sunday picnics in the lounge
• Glue Vine (and Swedish Glug)
• Meals at La Taska (Gothenberg)
• Volvo caffeteria
• Cambridge crepes
• pork ribs @ John Barleycorn
• North Carolina onion rings
• Wilga and Normon's garden picnics

Restaurant

• Codfather
• John Barleycorn ribs
• Smaka
• Eating at Nandos (Cambridge)

2000 - 2003

London

• Putney gourmet burgers
• North Acton lamb and mint burgers
• Biltong from The South African shop, London
• Tescos Crème Caramel (London)
• Roast beef & yorkshire pudding (touch rugby)

Travels

• Thick shake & Blue Moon Pancake (Dahab)
• Food after 2 weeks of dahl baht in Nepal
• Yak steak (Nepal)
• Camel steaks (Damascus)
• Pistachio Icecream (Damascus)

Restaurant

• The Grove rib-eye steak 
• Scollops in Knightsbridge, London
• Dessert wine at The Oxo Towers, London
• Pocara steak (Nepal)

1990 - 2000

Food

• Kendal Mint Cake (Granchester, Lake District)
• Pint of prawns (Plett)
• Rosemarie's chocolate gateau and risotto
• Melissa's French Nougat
• Ally's apple pie with ginger
• Ally's lemon merengue pie
• Mexican wrap and berry smoothy from Kuali
• Woolies picnics
• Crepes and thick-shakes at Dulces
• Allies Jamie Oliver's sweet and sour chicken
• South African Don Pedro
• Ally's lamb & pavlova
• The food in Istanbul
• Hagendaaz Icecream (Kensington)
• Sea food hot pot (Ko Bulan, Thailand)
• Cream tea in Devon
• Yoghurt and honey (Olympos, Turkey)
• Squirrel
• meals at George's Place (Butterfly Valley, Turkey)

Restaurants

• Le Petite Fermet lunches
• Lamb in pastry at The Wild Fig
• Barrister's Madagascan Fillet
• Nandos chicken, chips with perinase and olives
• Desserts at The Village restaurant
• Boschedahl buffet
• Kushiri (Cairo)

1980 - 1988 

Food

• Spring rolls from Dean Street Chineese
• Frozen Yogurt Blizzard
• Roast beef & veggies & kiersch (Gran)
• South African braais with sizzling boerewors
• Cassanova veal and cassata
• Spur Hero Burger
• Ribs at The Spur

Restaurant

• Cassanova veal and cassata
• Spur Hero Burger
• Ribs at The Spur

1970 - 1980

Food

• Granny Station's roast chicken & junket
• mum's chocolate mousse, banana pudding & crème caramel
• Leche sorbet at San Marcos (Sea Point)
• Mum's chicken soup
• Mum's Xmas cake
• Jam donuts and custard slice at Silwood bakery
• Mum's Xmas dinners, particularly xmas pudding and brandy butter
• Granadilla lollies, St James
• Caramel crisp icecreams as a kid
• Mum's Sunday Roasts
• Coffee and Top Deck wtching TV on Saturday nights
• Mum's rice pudding
• Welsh Rarebit
• Appletizer on the beach with grandpa as a kid
• Granny's chicken lunch

Restaurants

• Mount Nelson lunches with the family as a kid
• Birkenhead dinners with granny and grandpa as a kid
• Spur Hot Rock & Pecan Nut Sunday
• Pancake place

Related food posts

• Eating out
• Dinner parties
• Ice cream
• Dessert
• High tea
• More favourite food

Restaurants and cafes

• Frenchy's
• Flying Bear
• The Alchemist
• The Botanica
• Sappho Book cafe
• The Oaks
• Sydney Fish Market
• Cattle Baron
• Spur
• Wine farm meals

⬇︎ Keep scrolling for all posts tagged as “Food”

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!

Stories by theme

• Funny
• Embarrassing
• Inspiring
• Insights
• Disgusting
• School
• Teachers
• University
• Work
• Travel
• Sport
• Spirituality
• Music
• Camping
• Hiking
• Pets
• Love
• Romance
• Friendship
• Relationships
• Sex
• Nudity
• Food
• Medical
• Pranks
• Nicknames

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
• Ally
• Mack
• Friends
• Russell
• Ivor
• Chrisel
• Oliver
• Housemates
• Teachers

⬇︎ Keep scrolling for all posts tagged as “Story”

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The Dancing Queen of Duxford

In 2005, during my tenure at Volvo’s UK headquarters in Duxford, I found myself hitting a mid-afternoon slump. The quiet, focused hum of the open-plan office was making me feel a bit sleepy, so I decided to inject some energy into my system with a bit of "pumping" music.

I reached for my headphones, plugged them in, and selected a track guaranteed to provide a pick-me-up: Abba’s Dancing Queen. I cranked the volume, leaned back, and let the upbeat tempo wash over me. I was really getting into the groove, feeling the sleepiness lift, when I happened to look up.

Every single person in the office was staring at me.

Andrew, leaning over his desk with a look of mild concern, broke the silence. "Wow, Graeme," he said, "you might want to switch that off."

With a jolt of horror, I realized I hadn't seated the headphone jack correctly. The music wasn't thumping into my ears; it was blaring at maximum volume directly out of my computer speakers, serenading the entire department.

For a moment, I braced for a corporate reprimand for disrupting the peace. But then I remembered where I was. In an office full of Swedes, Abba isn't just music—it’s a national anthem. Instead of annoyance, I saw nods of appreciation and wide grins. They didn't care about the noise; they heartily approved of the choice.

Memorable moments: The Jaisalmer spit-shine

In 1997, Ally and I were backpacking through Rajasthan, India. We found ourselves in Jaisalmer, the "Golden City," and signed up for what we imagined would be a majestic three-day camel trek through the Thar Desert.

The reality was a bit more abrasive. Our camels were incredibly bad-tempered, and the seating was a masterclass in discomfort. However, the desert scenery was spectacular, and as the sun began to set on our first night, the vast, shifting dunes almost made the saddle-soreness worth it.

Our expedition leader, a local man of practical habits, began preparing dinner over the campfire. As he was plating up, he noticed one of the metal dishes wasn't quite up to his standards. With a loud, guttural clear of his throat, he delivered a hefty spray of spit directly onto the plate, then gave it a vigorous buffing with his filthy shirt sleeve.

We watched in paralyzed horror as he piled our food onto the "cleaned" surface. But, being young, exhausted, and absolutely starving, we ate every last bite.

The consequences arrived with the morning sun. As we set off the next day, Ally’s stomach decided to stage a full-scale revolt. She signaled that she had to get off, and the camel performed its awkward, jarring "press-up" maneuver to kneel in the sand. Ally dismounted, threw up, and climbed back on. A few hundred yards later, the process repeated. Press-up, dismount, vomit, remount.

Eventually, the sheer physical labor of the camel’s gymnastics became too much to bear. Ally simply said, "Fuck it," and began projectile vomiting directly from the height of the camel’s hump. I have never seen her so sick. We eventually limped back to the Jaisalmer Fort, where she spent the next several days in a darkened room, recovering from the most scenic—and hygienic—disaster of our lives.

Memorable moments: The Wit Els hopping hazard

In 2006, I returned to Cape Town for the Wit Els hike with Ally, Russell, and our friend Mike. It was a formidable four-day undertaking: a steep mountain climb followed by a descent into a deep canyon for days of relentless boulder hopping along the river.

Just before we set off, Mike met two pretty Belgian backpackers. Smitten, he impulsively invited them along. We began the ascent, finally reaching the summit in the pitch black—only to discover that the top of the mountain was engulfed in a raging wildfire. It was terrifying, but we managed to reach "The Hoar Hut," which fortunately sat within a protective firebreak. We spent the night huddled inside while the world outside turned into a furnace.

The next morning, we descended into the steep canyon to begin the boulder hopping. It was here that Mike’s romantic gesture collided with cold, hard reality: the Belgian girls were catastrophically bad at it. They had zero balance and were incredibly cautious. Every hop was a twenty-minute negotiation.

By day three, we had only covered a third of the river. The "four-day" hike was looking more like a fortnight. With our supplies and patience dwindling, we were forced to take the only emergency exit on the river—a brutal, punishing climb back out over another mountain.

It was a stark lesson in the logistics of attraction: when inviting strangers on a boulder-hopping hike, always ensure they actually know how to hop.

Memorable moments: The bottom drawer betrayal

My neighbor Helen was undeniably sexy, and for weeks, there had been a undeniable spark between us—a series of subtle flirtations that seemed to be building toward a predictable conclusion. When she finally invited me over for dinner, the atmosphere was already charged.

After a couple of drinks, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I found a large, artistic nude photograph of her staring back at me. It was the ultimate mood-setter. I walked back into the lounge feeling more animated than ever, the "signal" loud and clear.

The tension peaked when Helen looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Come to my bedroom," she whispered. "Let’s be naughty together."

Bingo.

We retreated to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. I was mentally preparing to go in for the definitive kiss, my heart hammering with anticipation. But just as I leaned in, Helen pivoted away. She reached down and slid open her bottom bedside drawer.

Instead of a romantic gesture, she produced a very large, expertly rolled spliff.

"Hope you don't mind us doing this here," she said casually, as the first cloud of smoke began to drift toward the ceiling. "People can see us from the lounge window, so it’s much more private in here."

The disappointment was absolute—a crushing, silent landslide. The "naughty" behavior she had promised wasn't a passionate encounter; it was simply a clandestine smoke in a room with better curtains. We spent the rest of the evening on a mellow, hazy high, chatting comfortably as the romantic spark evaporated into the air.

Memorable moments: The epic spray

I have always struggled with seasickness. Over the years, two specific voyages have etched themselves into my memory—not for the scenery, but for the sheer, green-tinged misery of the experience.

The first was on my eighteenth birthday in Mauritius. To celebrate the milestone, our family chartered a yacht for a cruise. It was a choppy, restless day, and as the boat pitched, my stomach began its own rhythmic descent into darkness. I reached a point of such profound nausea that I actually had fantasies of diving overboard just to end the motion. I desperately wanted to be sick, hoping for that legendary moment of relief, but my body refused to cooperate.

I was sitting doubled over, staring at the deck in a state of absolute "suffer-fest," when a well-meaning hand thrust a large plate directly under my nose. It was piled high with pungent tuna sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. That was the breaking point. The smell was the final sensory assault I couldn't survive. I scrambled for the back of the ship and delivered an epic, birthday-defining spray into the Indian Ocean.

Ten years later, I found myself on a ferry from Israel to Egypt. The Mediterranean was in a foul mood, and the ship was tossing violently. This time, I wasn't alone in my suffering; the entire deck was a gallery of green faces. I retreated to the stern to reenact my eighteenth birthday, joining a line of fellow passengers who were all projectile vomiting over the railing.

What sticks in my mind most vividly, however, isn't the sickness—it’s the gulls. An entire flock of them hovered in our wake, shrieking with delight. They weren't just following us; they were diving into the sea to feast on our collective misery. It was a sobering reminder of the natural order: while we were experiencing the lowest point of our human existence, the seagulls were having the best lunch of their lives.

Memorable moments: The $1 heartbreak

I have always loved a good shower, but two specific experiences stand out in my memory—one representing the pinnacle of human pleasure, the other a descent into cold, shivering despair.

In 2001, I tackled the Annapurna circuit in Nepal. It was a three-week trek through the staggering beauty of the Himalayas, but it came with a catch: for the first two weeks, there were no showers to be found. By the time we arrived in a small mountain town that offered hot water, I was more trail-dust than man.

That shower was the closest thing to religious bliss I have ever experienced. I didn't just stand there; I sat on the floor and rocked to and fro in utter ecstasy as the hot water hammered down on me. In that steaming cubicle, I made a silent, solemn vow to the universe: I will never take a hot shower for granted again.

Fourteen years later, the universe decided to test that vow.

I was hiking with friends near Lake St. Clair in Tasmania. It had been a long, miserable day of trekking through relentless rain. I was soaked to the bone and shivering with a deep, internal cold. When we finally made it back to the campsite, the sight of a shower block felt like a hallucination of salvation.

I hurried inside, fumbled out of my sodden clothes, and stood naked in the cubicle, trembling with anticipation. I reached for the handle, ready for that Himalayan heat—and saw the sign that broke my heart: INSERT $1 FOR HOT WATER.

Chuntering under my breath, I frantically searched my discarded clothes. I found notes. I found 50-cent pieces. I even found a $2 coin. But the elusive $1 gold coin was nowhere to be found.

There is a specific kind of fury that comes from standing naked and freezing in front of a machine that demands exactly what you don't have. Swearing at the injustice of it all, I had to pull my wet, cold clothes back onto my shivering body and head back out into the rain in search of a dollar.

Memorable moments: The sooty shins

When I was seven years old, I underwent surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The recovery required me to have both legs encased in plaster of Paris from my toes to my knees for six long weeks.

At the start, I loved it. My legs became a living canvas as friends and family covered the white plaster in doodles and signatures. I can still understand the appeal of tattoos based on that early experience of wearing my social circle on my shins.

However, the novelty eventually wore off, replaced by a relentless, agonizing itch deep inside the casts. In our family home in Medway, we had a beautiful fireplace complete with a set of copper tools. Desperate for relief, I discovered that the long, slender fire poker was the perfect tool for the job. I would slide the cold metal down the top of the cast to reach those impossible spots. It was heaven, providing the only real relief I could find.

Finally, the day arrived to have the casts removed. The doctor brought out a specialized cutter and began the process of vibrantly buzzing through the layers of plaster. As the shells fell away, he suddenly recoiled in genuine horror.

My shins were stained a deep, mottled black.

For a terrifying second, the doctor was convinced he was looking at a catastrophic, gangrenous infection that had claimed both of my legs under his watch. His relief was palpable—and perhaps a little exasperated—when I explained that I’d simply been scratching myself with the soot-covered fire poker for the last month.

Memorable moments: The Grinder revelation

A couple of years back, I invited my meditation group over for an evening of quiet contemplation. We were deep into the "Now," watching Eckhart Tolle on the TV and soaking in the stillness of the room.

Toward the end of the night, my long-term housemate, Martin, returned from his weekly Friday ritual at the pub. Martin is a wonderful character, funny at the best of times, but particularly "tiddly" after a few pints. He wandered into the lounge, still radiating the boisterous energy of the public house, and joined our circle of calm.

My friend Sushann, curious about our living arrangement, asked Martin how the two of us had originally met. The mundane truth was that we’d connected through a website called Roommates.com.

Martin, however, saw a golden opportunity. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye and the confidence of three beers, he looked at the group and deadpanned:

"We met through Grindr!"

For anyone familiar with the app, the joke was obvious—a renowned hookup site for gay men was the furthest thing from our "Roommates" reality. The room erupted in laughter, and we moved on, eventually drifting back into our meditative presence.

Or so I thought.

A few weeks later, Sushann pulled me aside, her expression heavy with solemnity and a touch of newfound understanding.

"Wow, Graeme," she said with all seriousness, "I didn’t realize you were gay."

It turned out she was the only person in the room who hadn’t caught the punchline. To her, Martin’s drunken "revelation" wasn't a joke; it was a profound piece of personal history. It was a classic "Myburgh" moment: while I was sitting there immersed in a world of spiritual presence and higher consciousness, Sushann was busy recalibrating my entire identity based on a Friday night prank.

Memorable moments: The Matric marathon

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.

Memorable moments: The institution of lumpy custard

Our family used to go round for dinner at Gran and Gramps on a regular basis. It remains one of my favorite memories. Gran was an absolutely awesome cook, a woman who could navigate a kitchen with effortless grace, consistently producing amazing meals that anchored our family life.

But there was one singular, recurring flaw in her culinary repertoire: the custard.

For some reason, the smooth, silken sauce of the professional chef always eluded her. Her custard was invariably lumpy—filled with those strange, sweet islands of undissolved powder that defied every stir of her wooden spoon. It was the one thing she didn't make perfectly.

We turned it into a family institution. We’d sit around the table and make fun of it in the kindest way possible, poking at the "treasures" hidden in our dessert bowls. Gran would just smile, unfazed by the teasing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that while we admired her for her "perfect" roasts, we truly loved her for that custard. It was a reminder that excellence is impressive, but it’s people’s imperfections that we actually bond over. Those lumps weren't a failure of cooking; they were the texture of home.

Memorable moments: The invisible procession

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.”

Memorable moments: The almond heist

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.

Memorable moments: The fifty-hour silence

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.

Me and Merry

Memorable moments: The slow-motion comb

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.

Memorable moments: The Birkenhead legend

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.

Memorable moments: The urinal overture

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.

Memorable moments: The cockroach koan

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.

Memorable moments: Standing on edge

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.

Memorable moments: The hip-sized oversight

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.

Memorable moments: Raspy tongues and greasy pots

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!"

Memorable moments: The Observatory leak

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.

Memorable moments: The middle way

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.

Memorable moments: The vowels of doom

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.

Memorable moments: The adult Santa

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:

• "Wanna come with me on the sleigh and join the mile-high club?"
• "Control yourself, dear—I don't want water on my knee."
• "I’m lonely up at the North Pole. To be honest, I need someone really bad. Are you really bad?"
• "Sorry I’m late... I got my sack caught in the chimney."
• "How many chimneys did I go down today? Stacks!"

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.

Original post of the event