Memorable moments: The sardine can miracle

During my school days at St George's, a student in the year above me named James was renowned for being a little eccentric. He was fiercely intelligent, but he had a habit of pacing up and down while muttering to himself, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Whenever he became obsessed with a new subject, he would transform overnight into a walking encyclopedia, spouting forth intricate details to anyone within earshot. He was friendly enough, and I always quite liked him.

After school, James went on to the University of Cape Town, but our paths continued to cross at a local Christian youth group. By then, he had directed the full, laser-focused intensity of his intellect toward religion, rapidly becoming a formidable scholar on all things biblical.

When I eventually advanced to the University of Cape Town myself, James was already a legendary campus fixture, famous among the student body for his endless pacing up and down the iconic Jamieson Steps.

One afternoon, I stepped into the campus lift to head up to the chemistry lab, and by pure coincidence, James was inside too. We greeted each other warmly. As the lift ascended floor by floor, more and more students piled in, until the space became uncomfortably squished—a complete sardine can of packed bodies.

Just as the claustrophobia reached its absolute peak, James cleared his throat with great authority. He somehow managed to swivel around, looked out over the sea of trapped faces, and announced at full volume:

"I want you all to know that Jesus loves you. Praise His holy name!"

The moment the doors slid open at the very next floor, there was a frantic stampede for the exits. A complete mass exodus - half the lift emptied out in a split second, leaving behind a blissful expanse of empty space.

James turned to me with a brilliant, mischievous smile and whispered, "Praise Jesus! Works every time."

Memorable moments: The descriptive fallacy

I taught English for two years at an adult college in Sydney, and on the whole, I loved it. It was a wonderful break from the corporate world and a fantastic outlet for my creativity. But there was one specific incident that was deeply regrettable, incredibly challenging, and easily one of the most embarrassing moments of my professional life.

Every term, I would be assigned a new class of at least twenty students. Many of them had names that were difficult for me to pronounce or remember—particularly the Thai students—and remembering names has never been my strong suit. Since I was expected to know everyone's name within the first couple of lessons, I developed a mnemonic system. On the very first day, I would write quick, descriptive trigger words next to each name on my official roster to jog my memory: Bubbly Brazilian, Very Tall, Bright Red Glasses, and so on.

During one frantic first lesson, as I tried to quickly catalog twenty new faces, I hit a wall with one female student. I couldn't immediately spot a distinct clothing item or personality trait to lock onto, so in the heat of the moment, I hastily scribbled "fat face" next to her name.

Four days later, during a brief break in class, I stepped out to go to the toilet. In my haste, I stupidly left my folder sitting open on my desk.

One of the male students in the class was utterly obsessed with his attendance record, as his student visa strictly depended on it. Seeing his chance, he surreptitiously walked up to my desk, opened the folder, and began scanning the roster to check his marks. That was when his eyes landed on the handwritten note next to his classmate's name.

Instead of keeping quiet, he promptly blurted it out to the entire room. The class erupted into laughter, and the poor girl was understandably humiliated.

She immediately went down to the principal's office to lodge a formal complaint. When I found out what had happened, I felt absolutely sick to my stomach. I apologized profusely to both the student and the director, thoroughly horrified by the pain my careless shorthand had caused.

It was a brutal, unforgettable lesson. From that day onward, I made a strict rule never to write anything on my roster that wasn't overwhelmingly flattering. No student ever snooped in my folder again, but if they had, they would have been absolutely thrilled with what they found.

Memorable moments: The descendant of Fluffy

While traveling in Ecuador, my group ran headfirst into a classic culinary crossroad: the local delicacy was cuy—or, as we know it, guinea pig.

My travel companions were eager to try it, which immediately triggered a severe clash of values inside my head. On one hand, I’m a firm believer in immersing yourself in local cultures and trying every regional dish put in front of you. On the other hand, how on earth could I knowingly eat an animal that had once been a beloved childhood pet? How could I look myself in the mirror after eating a direct descendant of Fluffy?

Eventually, curiosity and my travel ethos won out. Why not? I reasoned. It’ll probably arrive neatly chopped up, swimming in a thick stew or casserole where it’s blissfully easy to forget what you’re actually chewing on.

We placed the order. Twenty minutes later, the waiter returned and laid the dish on the table.

My heart sank. There was no stew. There was no clever disguise. It was literally a whole guinea pig lying flat on its back with its little legs splaid out in all directions. It had been dehaired and roasted, and while it was thankfully decapitated, there was absolutely zero mistaking the distinct, unmistakable geometry of the animal.

Oh dear.

I took a breath, picked up my fork, and tried it. To my utter confusion, it actually tasted great, perfectly tender and coated in a delicious, savory marinade. But the guilt weighed heavily on every single bite.

The real fallout, however, arrived weeks later when I posted my travel photos online. My mum—who had personally doted on our childhood guinea pigs and cherished every memory of them—took one look at the blog post and was utterly horrified. She was deeply affronted that her own son could do such a thing.

Related posts

• Original post of the event
• Beloved pets

More views of and from the Harbour Bridge

Fort Dennison is one the remaining lighthouses in Sydney I have not photographed yet. I got some rather distant photos from the bridge. I will get closer photos from a ferry soon.

Walk over the Harbour Bridge

A lovely walk from my home to Kiribilli and over the Harbour Bridge to Circular Quay with lots of iconic sights. I'm so lucky to live in this epic city and have all this on my doorstep.