Thick as Tina

Growing up, we had a beloved dog named Tina. I have never, in all my years, seen a dog who could wag her tail with such violent, sustained joy. It didn't matter if you’d been gone for two years or two minutes; Tina’s tail was her primary mode of communication.

Eventually, her enthusiasm became her undoing. She wagged so hard and so often against the walls that her tail was constantly injured, the scabs breaking open and spraying blood everywhere in a rhythmic, joyful massacre. It lasted for months until it became untenable. With heavy hearts, my parents had the vet remove it.

Tina returned home wearing a pair of female panties for a few weeks to protect the healing stump. But the loss of the tail didn't dampen her spirit; it just forced her to find a new medium for her delight. From that day on, when she saw you, she would emit a low, rumbling hum of pleasure through her nose while her entire hindquarters swung from side to side in a rhythmic "butt-wag." If the excitement reached a certain threshold, she’d punctuate the moment by widdling with pure joy.

Tina lived for the driveway ball-toss. We had another dog, Meg, and the competition between them was nothing short of existential. For Tina, getting to the ball before Meg wasn't just a game—it was her life’s work. If Meg won, the heartbreak was visible.

When she wasn't competing for tennis balls, Tina was hunting shadows. She was particularly obsessed with the moving silhouettes of butterflies, chasing them across the grass for hours, barking at the ground, and occasionally stubbing her nose on the dirt in her pursuit of a dark spot. At night, she’d transfer that intensity to torchlight, sprinting after a beam of light as if it were a tangible prize.

My grandfather, never one to mince words, used to use her as the family benchmark for intelligence. If my sister or I did or said something particularly dim-witted, he’d shake his head and say, "Don’t be as thick as Tina."

He wasn't entirely wrong about her IQ, but I loved her with all my heart. She was the kinetic, shadow-chasing soundtrack to my childhood and teens—a dog who might not have understood how light worked, but who understood exactly how to love a family with every fiber of her (short-tailed) being.

Memorable moments: The person Mack thinks I am

In 2013, I found myself diving into the digital depths of a Kindle book dedicated to the "Importance of Purpose." It was a heavy, earnest volume designed to help you find your motivation, make a meaningful contribution to the world, and generally become the best possible version of a human being. It was packed with complex exercises and soul-searching prompts, and I was fully committed to the work.

That evening, I was lying on my bed, digital highlighter at the ready, when I looked over at Mack.

He was lying right next to me, his head resting on the duvet. He didn't have a Kindle, he hadn't read a single page of self-help literature, and he certainly wasn't worried about his "contribution to the world." He just looked across at me with an expression of such total, unconditioned love and adoration that it stopped me mid-sentence.

In that gaze, there were no expectations, no performance reviews, and no five-year plans. To Mack, I wasn't an English teacher or a man struggling with his "alpha" status; I was the center of his universe—a flawless, heroic figure capable of infinite kindness (and the occasional steak scrap).

I looked at the complex exercises on the screen and then back at the dog. A sudden, quiet clarity washed over me.

I realized then that I didn't need a three-hundred-page manual to find my "why." My purpose was sitting right there, wagging its tail. I thought to myself, Maybe it’s actually very simple: I just want to be the person my dog thinks I am.

If I could live up to the version of me that existed in Mack’s eyes—the one who was always worth the wait, always worthy of love, and always the "best human" in the room—then all the other exercises would be redundant.

Memorable moments: Lord Muck of the Manor

A short while after Ally and I separated, an old friend moved into the spare room. He was a steady presence, paid his rent on time, and I appreciated the extra income. But as it turned out, he wasn’t just paying rent; he was also conducting a six-month sociological study on the power dynamics of my household.

One afternoon, he handed me a book. The title was blunt: "What to Do When Your Dog is the Alpha Male in Your Relationship."

I flipped it over and saw a quote by Martha Scott that felt like a personal attack: "Don’t make the mistake of treating your dogs like humans, or they’ll treat you like dogs."

I was, to put it mildly, a little affronted. Why on earth would he buy me such a thing? Mack and I were perfect equals! We shared a life, a vibe, and a mutual respect. I tossed the book onto my shelf in a huff, refusing to give it the satisfaction of a single turned page.

A few weeks later, I finished brushing my teeth and walked into my bedroom, ready for a peaceful night’s sleep. I stopped dead in the doorway. There was Mack, positioned exactly where my head was supposed to go. He wasn't just lying there; he was perched atop my pillow like "Lord Muck," surveying the room with a haughty, regal air that suggested I was merely a guest in his executive suite.

He didn't move. He didn't wag. He just looked at me as if to say, "I believe your spot is at the foot of the bed tonight, human."

I stood there staring at his "proportional" ego and realized the truth. I slowly backed out of the room, walked over to the bookshelf, and pulled down the manual. It turns out that when you treat a Zen Master like a king for long enough, he eventually decides he needs a throne—and in my house, that throne was a standard-sized pillow.

Memorable moments: The dog-flap dilemma

Every morning, I would head out early to my job as an English teacher, leaving Mack comfortably ensconced in the warmth of my bed. Our daily hand-over ritual was clockwork: around 9:00 AM, Liza would arrive, knock on the door, and belt out her signature summons: "Mack, Mack, Mack, Macketty Mack Mack!"

Usually, this triggered a joyful, high-speed sprint as Mack thundered down the stairs and burst through the dog flap for a blissful reunion. But one morning, the wind conspired against the routine and blew my bedroom door shut.

When Liza arrived and gave the call, Mack found himself a prisoner. He went from "Zen Master" to "Houdini in a panic" instantly, barking with a frantic intensity that could be heard down the street. Liza, hearing the desperation, immediately assumed the worst. Mack was injured. Mack was dying. Mack had somehow succumbed to the "sucker" appendix genes of the Myburgh line.

In a state of total maternal panic, she tried my mobile, but I was in the middle of a lesson with my phone switched off. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Liza decided the only way into the fortress was through the dog flap.

Now, Liza is not a large woman, but she isn't exactly "canine-proportioned" either. She dropped to her hands and knees and committed to the entry. She managed to get her head and shoulders through the portal before the laws of physics intervened. She was stuck—wedged firmly in the doorframe, unable to go forward and unwilling to go back.

It was at this exact moment that my housemate arrived home. He walked up the path to find a pair of legs and a bottom waving in the air, while the rest of Liza was inside the house, still gamely yelling, "Mack! Mack! Mack!" into the hallway. All the while, the "victim" continued his operatic barking from the safety of the upstairs bedroom.

It takes a special kind of person to prioritize a barking dog over the basic laws of physics and personal decorum. Liza didn't just want to save Mack; she was willing to become a permanent part of the house’s infrastructure to do it. My housemate’s arrival was the only thing that saved her from a very long morning of "Macketty Mack-ing" into the carpet. After that, we decided that a spare key was a much more "proportional" solution than Liza attempting to shrink herself to the size of a spaniel.

Memorable moments: The prayer gong paradox

Mack was, in many ways, a spiritual dog—a natural Zen master of the "now." He was a creature of the light; if a single sunbeam pierced the shadows of my room, he would find it and claim it instantly. He even had a dedicated meditation practice. In my early days, I used to meditate lying on the floor with my feet up on the bed, and Mack would immediately come and settle his weight onto my chest and tummy, resting his head on my shoulder to soak up the chilled-out vibrations.

When a group of friends invited me to a formal weekend meditation retreat, I asked if I could bring my four-legged guru along. They were hesitant—retreats are usually strictly human affairs—but because Mack was so famously placid, they made an exception.

We arrived, and Mack played his part perfectly. He slipped quietly under my chair, a silent shadow of canine composure. We went through the formal preparations, grounding ourselves and sinking into a deep, collective calm. The room was heavy with silence and spiritual intent.

Then, Brendan picked up the striker and hit the prayer gong.

Now, there is one thing—and one thing alone—that makes Mack go absolutely ballistic, and that is a doorbell. To his ears, the resonant, metallic claaaang of the sacred gong wasn't a call to enlightenment; it was a high-priority intruder alert.

Mack didn't just wake up; he launched himself from under the chair like a furry missile. He began to bark uncontrollably, a frantic, rhythmic explosion of noise that shattered the "oneness" of the room into a million jagged pieces. The "semblance of calm" didn't just evaporate; it was hunted down and mauled.

I had to scramble to my feet, grab his collar, and drag my "Zen Master" out of the hall while apologizing profusely to a room full of people who had just been violently ejected from their third eye.

It was deeply embarrassing. I realized that day that while Mack was indeed a creature of the light, he was also a creature of the front porch. He proved that even in the deepest state of meditation, there is no sound quite as powerful as the one that tells a dog there might be a postman at the door.

Memorable moment: The blonde magnet

Mack always loved me, but I was never under any illusion about the hierarchy of his heart. He was absolutely, unconditionally devoted to Ally. When we eventually separated and she moved away, Mack was left with a lingering, hopeful void.

Every trip to the park near my house became a high-stakes investigation. If Mack spotted a woman with blonde hair—whether she was fifty yards away or just a glimmer on the horizon—he was off like a shot. He was convinced, every single time, that he’d finally found his missing person.

I, of course, had to follow in his wake. I’d jog across the field, arriving breathless just as Mack was realizing his mistake, and I’d have to offer a sheepish, "Sorry, he thought you were someone else... Hi, I'm [Name]."

It didn't take long for me to realize that Mack had inadvertently become the most brilliant "ice-breaker" in the history of dating. He was introducing me to every attractive blonde woman in the neighborhood with a success rate that a professional matchmaker would envy.

I looked at him one afternoon, panting and happy after yet another "investigation," and realized I was sitting on a goldmine. I thought to myself, I should really be renting this dog out to the eligible bachelors of the neighborhood by the hour. I could have made a fortune. Mack would get his exercise, the bachelors would get their introductions, and I’d be the tycoon behind the world’s first "Canine Wingman" agency.

Memorable moments: The forensic envelope

Not long after Liza came into our lives—and into Mack’s—I returned home to find a mysterious envelope taped to my front door. It wasn’t a bill or a friendly "hello" card; it felt strangely weighted.

I opened it up, and two small pieces of plastic fell out into my palm. I turned them over, squinting at them, trying to identify which household object had met a violent end. Tucked inside was a handwritten note from Liza:

"I found these in Mack’s poo. I’m most concerned. What has he been eating?"

I stood there on the porch, staring at the plastic evidence of Mack’s internal transit system. It was a baptism by fire into our new co-parenting arrangement. Most people might start a relationship by sharing a bottle of wine or a nice meal; Liza and I started ours with a shared, high-stakes investigation into what, exactly, Mack had decided was an appetizer.

It was a clear signal that Liza wasn't just a casual observer in Mack’s life—she was a woman who didn't mind getting her hands dirty (literally) to ensure his well-being. Looking at those two pieces of plastic, I realized that if Mack could survive his own questionable diet, and I could survive the horror of receiving his "output" in an envelope, the three of us were going to get along just fine.

Memorable moments: The silky souvenir

Mack had ears that were, quite simply, a sensory delight. They were so incredibly silky that I used to spend ages just stroking them, marveling at the texture. One day, in a moment of dry, tongue-in-cheek humor, I turned to his co-owner, Liza, and made a suggestion.

"You know," I said, "when Mack eventually goes, I think I want to have his ears removed. I’ll turn them into a keyring so I can keep that silkiness with me forever."

I expected a laugh or a mock-shudder. Instead, Liza looked at me with a face of total, unwavering seriousness.

"Oh, good," she said. "I’ve been meaning to bring this up. I’m going to keep the rest of him and have him taxidermied. I want to put him right in the middle of my living room."

I stared at her in genuine horror. My "keyring" joke suddenly felt very small compared to the vision of a stuffed Mack standing guard over the coffee table. "Are you... are you being serious?" I stammered.

She held the gaze for a heartbeat longer, then a mischievous smile finally broke across her face. "Yes," she said, her eyes twinkling.

I never did get that keyring, and thankfully, Mack never ended up as a statue in the lounge. But that moment of wide-eyed horror remains one of my favorite memories of the absurdity that comes with loving a dog as much as we loved him.

Memorable moments: The empty envelope

When I was in prep school, I went to spend Christmas with my friend Greg Perks and his family at his grandparents' house in Plettenberg Bay. It was a classic, sun-drenched coastal Christmas, and we all gathered in the living room for the sacred ritual of opening presents and cards.

The atmosphere was festive until Greg opened the card from his Gran.

He pulled it out, read the message, and his face immediately fell into a mask of pure confusion and mild disappointment. He looked at the empty envelope, then back at the card, and then at his mother, Barbara.

Barbara, meanwhile, was having an identical experience. She stared at her own card with a furrowed brow, looking increasingly concerned.

The message inside every single card, written in Gran’s elegant hand, was the same: "Buy yourself a present this year."

After the gift-opening ended, Barbara pulled Gran aside for a "little word," her voice laced with genuine worry.

"Mum," she whispered, "is everything okay? What did you mean by what you wrote in the cards? Are you... financially strapped? Do we need to help?"

Gran looked at her with total bewilderment. "Financially strapped? Heavens, no! Why on earth would you think that?"

"Well," Barbara replied, "you told everyone to buy themselves a present."

Gran’s eyes went wide as the realization hit her. "Oh my goodness!" she cried. "I’ve just been so busy! I sat down and wrote out cheques for every single one of you, and I fully intended to include them. But I’ve just realized... I forgot to actually put the cheques in the cards!"

Sure enough, a quick trip to her cupboard revealed the missing small fortune, neatly signed and waiting for a home.

Memorable moments: The winged guerillas

They say if you think you’re too small to make a difference, try spending a night with a mosquito. Personally, I’m not a fan of blood-sucking creatures, and I’ve had two particularly memorable encounters that prove exactly how much of a "difference" a tiny insect can make to your dignity.

The first was in 2002, while I was working as a tour leader in the Middle East. We’d organized a punch party deep in the desert, and I—perhaps over-enthusiastically—consumed a heroic amount of the local brew. I eventually collapsed exactly where I stood and spent the night sleeping in the desert sand.

I woke up the next morning completely blind.

While I was unconscious, the local mosquito population had treated my face like an all-you-can-eat buffet. My eyes were literally swollen into tiny, indistinguishable slits. I looked like a different species entirely. It took days for the swelling to subside enough for me to actually see the world again, let alone lead a tour.

Fast forward to 2006, when I was backpacking through South America for six months. I’d hired a guide for a five-day trek deep into the Amazon jungle. This time, I was prepared. Despite the stifling humidity, I was a fortress of discipline: long trousers, long-sleeved shirts, and a thick, chemical layer of insect repellent.

After five days of perfect defense, we finally emerged at the Amazon River to wait for the boat back to town. Sweltering and triumphant, I decided to reward myself with a celebratory swim. I was only in the water for five minutes—exposed, free, and seeing absolutely no sign of mosquitoes.

What I hadn't accounted for were the sandflies.

They are almost too small to see, and they feasted on me in a silent, invisible frenzy. I didn't feel a thing until I climbed out of the water, and then, all at once, an insane, full-body itch set in. By then, it was too late. There was almost no part of my body that wasn't covered in bites. It took weeks for the welts to go down.

Between the desert "blindness" and the Amazonian itch, I've learned that nature has a very dark sense of humor. You can plan for the big predators, but it’s the ones you can’t see—or the ones that catch you after a heroic amount of punch—that really leave a mark.

Memorable moments: The logistical symphony

One evening, Ivor and I went to watch his little daughter perform at a school music evening. It was one of those classic parental milestones, but the physics of the event were spectacularly skewed.

When it was her turn, she appeared on stage looking tiny and delicate—followed by an adult lugging a cello that was quite clearly three times her size. It looked less like a musical instrument and more like a large wooden wardrobe she was expected to wrestle into submission.

What followed was a masterclass in slow-motion preparation. It took a solid twenty minutes of intense focus just to get the logistics right: the chair was adjusted, the music stand was maneuvered, the endpin was stabbed into the floor, and she spent an eternity shifting into the "exactly right" anatomical position to accommodate the giant mahogany beast.

Finally, after the Herculean setup was complete, she took a breath, gave what seemed like exactly three deliberate strokes of the bow, and... it was over. The performance lasted about thirty seconds. The ratio of "preparation" to "actual music" was mathematically absurd.

But she was absolutely adorable, and despite the comical brevity of the piece, Ivor was beaming. He was the picture of the proud father, unmoved by the fact that the setup had taken forty times longer than the symphony.

Watching Ivor that night, I realized that pride has nothing to do with the length of the performance. It’s about the twenty minutes of watching someone you love negotiate a truce with a giant wooden beast for the sake of three perfect notes.

Memorable moments: The blackboard brawl

In 1984, my school world shifted. We moved away from the dour, strict atmosphere of the previous headmaster and into the era of Mr. Cannon. He was charismatic, warm, and—most importantly—an unbelievable teacher. In his first year, he tossed out the standard textbook and devoted half the syllabus to an "alternative" approach. We were no longer students; we were detectives, gleaning history from archaeological clues and conflicting accounts.

But the most powerful lesson I ever received didn't come from a book or a shard of pottery. It came from a staged "scandal" that has stayed with me for nearly forty years.

We were in the middle of a session when the Deputy Head, Mr. Hart, stormed into the classroom. He looked livid. He marched up to Mr. Cannon and bellowed, "I saw you eyeing up my wife the other day! How dare you!" (To this day, I’m not even sure Mr. Hart was married, but the delivery was flawless).

The class sat in stunned, horizontal silence as the two most powerful men in our school got into a physical scuffle. Mr. Hart shoved Mr. Cannon against the blackboard, teeth bared, shouting more angry words while we watched in total disbelief.

"You haven't heard the end of this!" Mr. Hart finally screamed, storming out and slamming the door.

The tension in the room was thick enough to carve. We were reeling—what had we just witnessed? Mr. Cannon calmly straightened his tie, dusted off his jacket, and turned to us with a slow, knowing smile.

"Right class," he said quietly. "What did just happen here?"

The relief that swept through the room as we realized it was a performance was immense, but the real work was just beginning. Mr. Cannon began to grill us on the details. What was Mr. Hart wearing? What exactly did he say? What did his body language insinuate?

The results were staggering. Even though we had all been in the same small room, watching the same event only ten minutes prior, our accounts were a mess of contradictions. We argued over the words used, the intensity of the shove, and even the color of Mr. Hart's tie.

Mr. Cannon grinned with the satisfaction of a man who had just pulled off the ultimate heist.

"Well, class," he said, "if you can't all agree on something you witnessed first-hand ten minutes ago, how in the hell can you believe in historical accounts? How can you believe in history?"

Nearly forty years later, the details of that day are still more vivid to me than any date I ever memorized for an exam. That is the definition of powerful teaching: creating an experience so disorienting that the truth finally has a chance to sink in.

Memorable moments: The two little waves

I met my wonderful friend, Ivor, during my university years while attending a youth group. He quickly became one of my closest confidants—one of those rare people in whose presence you can be entirely, unapologetically yourself.

Our relationship possessed a beautiful depth; we spent countless hours in those "putting the world to right" conversations that only seem to happen in the quiet intensity of youth. But we also shared a relentless sense of fun and a love for those deep, gasping belly laughs that leave you breathless.

In fact, we developed a term for our friendship that I still think is the perfect descriptor: "Two Little Waves."

In physics, there is a magical effect called constructive interference. When two small waves overlap in just the right way—at the exact right frequency and phase—they don’t just pass each other by. Instead, they merge and amplify, suddenly transforming into one massive, powerful wave.

That was Ivor and me. On our own, we were just two students navigating life, but when we got together, the interference was purely constructive. We didn't just add our energies together; we multiplied them.

Suddenly, two little waves became a swell of double the fun and double the hilarity. It’s a metaphor that epitomizes our bond to a T.

These days, he’s in Cape Town and I’m in Sydney, living separate lives on opposite sides of the world. Many months pass between seeing each other.

And yet within within minutes of reconnecting, it’s back. The same rhythm. The same laughter. Two little waves coming back into perfect alignment.

Memorable moments: My Himalayan organ

In my final year at university, reality hit me in the form of a searing, localized agony at two in the morning. I managed to get into my car to drive to my parents' house, but the journey was a stop-start nightmare; at every red light, I had to abandon the steering wheel and curl myself into a fetal ball until the light turned green.

My parents took one look at my translucent complexion and rushed me to the emergency room. I was whisked into surgery for an emergency appendectomy.

My first memory of waking up was the surgeon standing over my bed, looking less like a clinical professional and more like a proud fisherman.

"My God, Mr. Myburgh!" he exclaimed. "You have the hugest appendix I have ever seen! It’s truly impressive—look, here it is in a bottle." He held up the jar with a flourish. "Getting this sucker out of you was a genuine challenge. Do you mind if we keep it? It honestly belongs in a museum."

Droggy and recovering, I looked at the "sucker" in the jar and felt a strange, misplaced sense of pride. I remember thinking, Wow, I only wish certain other of my organs were built to the same magnificent proportions.

With my parents heading off on a trip, I went to stay with my beloved grandparents to convalesce. It was during this recovery period that I discovered a side of my grandfather I had never suspected.

One morning, unable to sleep, I crept into the kitchen at dawn for a glass of milk. There sat Gramps at the kitchen table, intensely focused on the morning crossword. He was entirely, unapologetically nude.

"Gramps," I whispered, clutching my surgical stitches, "you’re... you're nude."

He didn't even look up from the clues. "Yes," he replied matter-of-factly. "For some reason, it makes me more inspired at thinking up words."

I considered this in silence.

Between his approach to crosswords and my record-breaking appendix, it was becoming increasingly clear that subtlety was not a dominant trait in our family.

Memorable moments: Fast and furious

Once upon a time, there was a fine young chap named Antony. He lived a happy life in Pinelands with three zany housemates, but there were times when he felt he was missing that "special something." Then, on a cold, blustery winter evening, he was invited to a Glühwein party. He walked in, ready to get stuck into the warm wine, when suddenly—flash, bam, alakhazam—his whole world shifted.

There, standing before him, was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

If you ask Antony about this moment today, he’ll give you the most explicit details: the outfit she wore, the sparkle in her eyes, the fact that her feet were bare, and—crucially—that she was carrying a plate of sausage rolls. It was, for him, a total thunderbolt of love at first sight.

However, the "heroine" of our story had a slightly different experience. When Jo was later asked to recall her side of the events, she couldn't actually remember Antony being at the party at all.

Undeterred, our hero persisted. He ensured their paths crossed whenever possible until, eventually, Jo noticed him and decided he was actually rather delicious too. The turning point came a few weeks later at a music concert. Jostled by the crowd, Jo turned to him and said, "Antony, please take hold of my hand—I don’t want to lose you."

Being a perceptive chap, Antony realized things were hotted up sufficiently to make his big move. After the concert, he took Jo out for frozen yoghurt. As they sat there, he decided to employ a classic "Valentino" move: the surreptitious hand on the knee.

It was a time-honored approach, but it had one fatal flaw. Antony’s hand was icy cold from holding his frozen yoghurt. When he made contact, Jo got the fright of her life, leaping a meter and a half off her chair in pure shock.

That was the official start of their "fast and furious" relationship: Antony was fast, and Jo was furious. Despite the thermal shock, their love blossomed, and they were married in 1996—proving that even a freezing hand can’t put out a fire that started with a plate of sausage rolls.

Memorable moments: The lone tooth legend

My Gramps was a world-class flirt, a trait he carried with effortless grace well into his later years. It was entirely harmless, and Gran never really minded; it was simply a part of his nature—he just couldn't help himself.

One evening, Ally and I took him to the Spur in Cape Town. He loved the place, particularly the steaks. As soon as we sat down, he was in top form, grinning at our waitress, teasing her with practiced ease, and offering charming compliments that had her beaming. He was the undisputed king of the table.

He was midway through enjoying his steak when disaster—of a very specific, mechanical nature—struck.

Gramps suddenly began to choke. Before we could even react, a rogue piece of steak went flying out of his mouth, followed immediately by his entire set of dentures. They hit his plate with a clatter and began to bounce up and down like a pair of porcelain castanets.

He scrambled to retrieve them, but the physics of the moment were against him. He couldn't get them back in. He was left sitting there with exactly one solitary tooth remaining in the front of his mouth.

Most men would have signaled for the check and buried their face in a napkin. But Gramps was made of sterner stuff.

When the waitress returned to the table a moment later, he didn't flinch. He leaned back and gave her a brilliant, confident grin, his single remaining tooth gleaming under the Spur’s warm lighting. He picked up the conversation exactly where he had left off, as charming and self-assured as if he were a Hollywood lead.

He proved that night that true charisma doesn't require a Hollywood smile. It just requires the guts to keep flirting even when your teeth are still vibrating on the dinner plate. I looked at Ally and realized I was watching a master at work; the dentures were gone, but the legend was very much intact.

Memorable moments: The ribbon transformation

When I was in high school, our mathematical world was presided over by Mr. Norton. To our teenage eyes, he seemed ancient—at least eighty years old—and his teaching style was as dry as the chalk dust he conjured. We were a naturally unruly bunch, and Mr. Norton’s dullness was the perfect fuel for our misbehavior. We pushed every boundary, right up until the day reality crashed into the classroom: Mr. Norton had a sudden heart attack.

The guilt was immediate and heavy. We felt personally responsible for his failing heart, and his long absence left a somber void. That void, however, was soon filled by a replacement who couldn't have been further from Mr. Norton’s world.

She was an eighteen-year-old Ukrainian girl, straight out of university, named Miss Kateryna. She was young, pretty, and possessed a simple, daily ritual that became the focal point of our lives: she wore a different colored ribbon in her hair every single day.

The effect on our class was miraculous.

Before she even stepped through the door, the once-rowdy room would be hushed in anticipation as we placed frantic bets on the day's color. "Yellow?" "Deep blue?" "Red?" The entire class was hopelessly, collectively smitten.

We had spent years perfecting the art of being a nuisance, but in her presence, we became like meek puppies. The transition was total. You could hear a pin drop in that room; we hung on her every word, suddenly finds ourselves intensely interested in the properties of a parabola or the mysteries of calculus.

It turns out that what Mr. Norton’s decades of experience couldn't achieve, a bit of Ukrainian charm and a silk ribbon did in an afternoon. We were a group of teenagers who had successfully defeated an "ancient" authority figure, only to be completely conquered by an eighteen-year-old with a penchant for primary colors.

Memorable moments: The Khumbu Siren

In 2023, a group of us—including Russell, Gavin, and Rajesh—set out for Everest Base Camp. It’s a brutal trek under the best conditions, but Russell started the journey with a stubborn throat infection. By the time we hit the higher altitudes, it had mutated into the dreaded "Khumbu cough," and it was, without exaggeration, the most extraordinary sound I have ever heard emerge from a human being.

It didn't just sound like a cough; it was a multi-stage acoustic event. It would start as a low, ominous rumble in his chest, then rapidly accelerate in pitch until it hit a high-velocity, uncontrollable wail. To the rest of us, it sounded like the melancholic mating call of a cross-eyed yeti searching for a lost love in a blizzard.

The hike was grueling. For days, we pushed through thin air and steep terrain—conditions that would break most healthy people, let alone someone whose lungs were performing a one-man opera. Yet, Russell was a legend. He remained cheerful and relentlessly adventurous, refusing to let the "Siren" in his chest dampen his spirits.

We, however, were not quite as legendary.

While we genuinely loved Russell, we were also as brutal as the mountain itself. We became so fascinated by the mechanics of the Khumbu Siren that we turned it into a competitive sport. Every time we reached a particularly steep precipice with a good echo acoustic, or a quiet moment of reflection, one of us would drop a perfectly timed one-liner.

Russell, unable to help himself, would start to giggle, which would immediately trigger the wail, echoing off the Himalayan peaks while we stood by, shamelessly scoring points for the "Best Trigger."

It was terrible, really. But as we climbed higher into the clouds, it became the soundtrack of our journey—a mix of thin air, gasping laughter, and the most ridiculous cough in the history of mountaineering. Russell eventually made it to Base Camp, proving that while the mountain is tough, it’s nothing compared to a man who can survive both a chest infection and the "kindness" of his best friends.

Memorable moments: The Karoo comedy club

In 2025, I headed into the Karoo desert for Afrikaburn with Russell and a fantastic group of his friends. It’s a surreal, makeshift community of 13,000 people where the world of money vanishes for a week, replaced entirely by the "gifting" economy.

One of the most prized gifts in that dusty world is a shower. Since all water has to be brought into the desert, a wash is a miracle. We would stand naked in a queue, eventually reaching the front to be doused in warm water and given a thorough, good-natured scrub-down by two delightful ladies. It was the kind of communal, ego-stripping experience that only happens in the Karoo.

Russell, ever the visionary, brought two gifting ideas of his own that were absolute triumphs.

First, he curated an incredible collection of temporary tattoos. We set up a "Tattoo Station" that became a magnet for connection. It was a brilliant way to bond with strangers over a bit of ink and water. I remember our friend Dawn, who has a wicked sense of humor, showing off her new acquisition.

"I’ve got a little mouse on my inner thigh," she announced with a mischievous twinkle. She peeled back her sarong to reveal the spot, only to find the mouse had vanished. She looked genuinely perplexed for a second before deadpanning, "Oh dear, I think my pussy has eaten it!"

But Russell’s piece de résistance came the following day.

The toilets at Afrikaburn are a unique architectural experience: rows of twelve "long-drops" on stilts, completely open to the desert breeze save for a low wooden partition. It’s a place where you can contemplate the vast horizon while attending to your morning business in full view of passers-by.

Russell realized he had the one thing every performer dreams of: a captive audience.

Armed with a chair, a boombox, and his endless mental library of one-liners, he set up shop right in front of the loos. A friend dubbed it "The Shit Show," and the name stuck instantly. Russell delivered a masterclass in comedy to the row of seated spectators, encouraging them to heckle and yell "CRAP!" whenever a joke didn't land.

Before long, a crowd of passers-by had gathered, and the atmosphere was electric. It was a festive, ridiculous triumph. Most people go to the desert to find themselves; Russell went to the desert to make sure that even in their most "exposed" moments, people were properly entertained by a man who truly knows how to work a room—even when half the room is sitting on a long-drop.

Memorable moments: The Quizmaster’s missed calling

Russell has a vast, almost intimidating general knowledge. He possesses a photographic memory that never fails; I also have a photographic memory, though I usually forget to take the lens cap off. This makes him a formidable opponent in any trivia setting, and an even better Quizmaster. During the COVID lockdowns in Australia, he’d gather all my local friends on Zoom from Cape Town and host brilliantly fun sessions that kept us all sane.

But the true extent of Russell’s "genius" really shone through during the infamous sex quizzes we used to attend in Cape Town pubs.

The format was simple but inspired: the Quizmaster would show a scene from a vintage adult film—nothing too extreme—and we had to guess what happened next. You’d get a point for accuracy, but more importantly, you’d get a point for making the room laugh.

Russell was in a league of his own. His predictions for the "next scene" were consistently more creative, elaborate, and hilarious than the actual movie. Whether it was an unexpected plumber-related plot twist or a bizarrely timed monologue, his "scripts" were far superior to the real thing.

I’m convinced Russell missed his true calling as a writer-director in the adult industry, specifically in the untapped genre of "Comedy Porn."

It takes a special kind of genius to turn a blue movie into a red-faced comedy routine. Russell’s photographic memory and quick wit made him the undisputed king of the pub quiz, reminding us all that if you aren't laughing at the ridiculousness of life (and especially sex), you’re probably doing it wrong.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road olympics

During the years Russell and I were housemates at Willow Road, the house became a laboratory for high-stakes, low-budget adrenaline. We didn't need a gym; we had a three-seater couch and a dangerous amount of competitive energy.

Our Couch Jumping competitions were a masterclass in poor risk management. The goal was to clear the entire length of the sofa in a single leap, which required a massive run-up and a violent "emergency brake" landing. We’d stick the landing, panting and triumphant, with our toes skidding just inches away from a literal death plummet off the balcony.

Then there was the day of the Garden Cane Duel.

Dressed in our bathrobes—which felt appropriately "regal" for the sport—we engaged in a ferocious fencing match. We weren't just poking; we were really laying into it. Russell landed several sharp, swishing blows across my shoulders that stung like a swarm of hornets.

Determined to counter, I swung back with a lucky—though profoundly unlucky for him—swish that caught him squarely across the nipple. The resulting yelp of agony was instantaneous. We were doubled over, a mess of terry cloth and bamboo, caught in that strange space between genuine pain and hysterical laughter.

It was at exactly this moment that Russell’s brother, Roger, walked in.

He stood in the doorway, staring in genuine horror at two grown men in bathrobes, armed with sticks, sweating, and clutching their injuries in a living room that looked like a disaster zone.  We tried to explain the "logic" of the match—the rules of the bathrobe-fencing and the strategic importance of the couch-jump—but I think he realized then what we already knew: at Willow Road, if it wasn't slightly dangerous or entirely ridiculous, it wasn't worth doing.

Memorable moments: The rose and the bromance

It’s amazing to think how the most important friendship of my life began. At the start of my final year at university, I had just started dating Ally. We were completely smitten, spending every spare moment together.

But I wasn't the only one who noticed her.

Every day, as Ally sat on the Jamie Steps at UCT, a charming, quirky guy named Russell would approach her and gallantly present her with a single rose. He was persistent, funny, and utterly unique. Ally was flattered, but eventually, she had to break the news: "I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

Russell, being the gentleman he is, backed off immediately, but he and Ally remained friendly. Then, the day came when I finally met the man who had been "wooing" my girlfriend.

I didn't feel a shred of jealousy. Instead, I immediately fell for him.

He was hilarious, adventurous, and possessed a spark of madness that matched my own. Our "bromance" was instantaneous. Ally and I stayed together for the next seventeen years, and throughout that time, Russell was the third pillar of our lives. He even moved in as our housemate for several years—a period I still count among the most enjoyable and laughter-filled times of my life.

Ally and I eventually went our separate ways in 2009, but my bond with Russell remained unshakable. Even now, living in different countries, our friendship is priceless. Whenever I return home to visit family, we don't just "catch up" over coffee; we disappear into the mountains or head off on some new adventure, picking up exactly where we left off on the Jamie Steps.

Memorable moments: The wrong foot

We were gathered for a proper family meal—Mum, Jo, Antony, Gran, Gramps, and my girlfriend (and future wife), Ally. The atmosphere was warm, the conversation was flowing, and I was feeling particularly romantic.

Deciding to share a private, flirtatious moment with Ally, I quietly slipped my shoe off under the table. I reached out with my foot, searching for hers, and began a gentle, rhythmic game of "footsie." I was quite pleased with myself; it felt like a sophisticated, silent connection in the middle of a busy Sunday lunch.

Suddenly, I noticed a change in the atmosphere above the mahogany.

Gran looked up from her roast potatoes and locked eyes with Gramps. A beautiful, radiant smile spread across her face—a look of absolute, rekindled love that I hadn't seen in years. It was the kind of look usually reserved for silver wedding anniversaries or wartime reunions.

Gramps looked back at her, smiling kindly, but he had a look of profound and utter confusion in his eyes. He clearly had no idea what had prompted this sudden outburst of grandmotherly affection.

In a sudden, startling flash of realization, the physics of the seating chart hit me. I wasn't playing footsie with Ally at all. I had overshot the mark by about twelve inches and was currently massaging Gran’s support stockings with my big toe.

I sat there, frozen, realizing I had accidentally become the most romantic thing to happen to Gran’s feet since 1954. I gently retracted my foot, put my shoe back on, and spent the rest of the meal staring very intently at my gravy, while Gran continued to beam at a bewildered Gramps for the next forty-five minutes.

Memorable moments: The millionaire mockery

Brothers Russell and Roger are among my closest friends, and our friendship has always been fueled by a mutual love for the well-executed prank. In 1999, when Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? first exploded onto South African television, the stakes for our brand of mischief reached an all-time high.

Both brothers possess prodigious general knowledge, having honed their trivia skills through years of grueling pub quizzes. Russell was the first to take the plunge. He applied for the show and, a month later, received the coveted "screening call." The producers filtered contestants with a numerical logic question—something like, "How many standard bricks would it take to pave a tennis court?" You had to deduce the answer on the spot; the closest estimates won a seat in the studio.

Russell made the cut. We all tuned in to watch him dominate the "Fastest Finger First" round and take the hot seat. He was brilliant, breezing through the levels until a tricky question about the Winter Olympics finally stumped him. He retired with a cool R32,000—not a bad haul for a single night’s work.

Naturally, Roger was itching to follow in his brother’s footsteps. The competitive fire was lit, which provided Russell and me with the perfect opening.

I have a bit of a knack for voices, so I called Roger’s house and adopted my most professional, "Stacey-from-the-production-office" tone.

"Hello, Roger. This is the production team for Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? We are currently screening for our next round of contestants. As you know, we require you to logically deduce a numerical answer. The closest contestant to the correct figure will be invited to the studio."

Roger was instantly beside himself with excitement. He was hooked.

"The question for you, Roger, is this: Exactly how many pages are there in total in the complete 32-volume set of the Encyclopedia Britannica?"

"Oh... oh dear," Roger stammered. "Let me see... can I confer with my friend here for a moment?"

"You have sixty seconds," I replied frostily.

What followed was pure comedic gold. We could hear them frantically whispering in the background, trying to calculate the average thickness of a volume, the density of the paper, and the likely page count per inch. It was a masterpiece of desperate, high-speed mathematics.

Finally, Roger came back to the phone, sounding breathless but confident. He delivered a number he had practically sweated over—something incredibly specific, like 32,640.

I stayed perfectly in character. I let the silence hang for a long, dramatic beat.

"Thank you, Roger," I said, my voice dripping with official gravity. "Now, for the tie-breaker: How many individual feathers are on a standard, adult South African Ostrich?"

That was the breaking point. There was a beat of stunned silence before Roger started to protest. "Wait... what? Is that even logically deducible? How on earth could I—"

At that moment, Russell and I both lost it. The "production office" collapsed into a fit of hysterical giggles as I dropped the accent. Roger was fuming for a solid minute, his brain still stuck in "Encyclopedia" mode while we roared with laughter at the other end.

He didn't get the R32,000, and he certainly didn't get to the hot seat, but he did eventually see the funny side. It turns out that while he knew everything about the world’s most famous encyclopedia, he’d completely forgotten the first rule of our friendship: Never trust a phone call from Russell and Graeme.

Memorable moments: The Bainskloof break-in

Russell, Roger, and I were heading to Bainskloof for a camping weekend in the mountains. The journey was already a triumph; we were in such high spirits that when "What the World Needs Now Is Love" came on the radio, we blasted the volume, pulled over to the side of the road, and performed a full-throttle celebratory dance in the dust.

After a glorious, lingering swim in the river, we finally reached the campsite entrance. It was well after 8:00 PM—the strict cutoff time when the wilderness gates are closed and locked for the night.

We stood before the towering fence, miles from any other civilization, and faced a grim reality: we were stranded. Refusing to let the night end in the car, we resolved to "infiltrate" our own campsite. What followed was a precarious, sweating, multi-stage operation. We hoisted heavy coolers, tangled tents, and sleeping bags over the high wire, clambering up and over like a very poorly coordinated SWAT team.

It took a considerable amount of time and effort to get the gear and the first two of us over. Finally, it was Roger’s turn. He made the climb, navigated the drop, and landed heavily on the "inner" side of the fence. As he stumbled back to regain his footing, his shoulder thudded against the massive gate.

With a slow, effortless creak, the gate swung wide open.

It hadn't been locked. It was just... closed. We had spent forty-five minutes risking our necks and our gear to scale a mountain fortress that was, in reality, welcoming us in with an unlocked door. I suppose the world does need love, but that night, what we really needed was to just try the handle.

Memorable moments: The birth of Discombob

You may wonder how a man gets a nickname as singular as "Discombob." It wasn't born on a sports field or in a classroom; it was forged in the high-pressure, slightly surreal doldrums of a call center for an online gambling company.

To stave off the boredom of explaining "betting requirements" and "connection timeouts" for the thousandth time, Russell and his fellow agents invented a secret game: The Word of the Day. The rule was simple—you had to shoehorn a completely ridiculous, multi-syllabic word into a professional call with a client without getting caught or losing your cool.

One Tuesday, Russell nominated "Discombobulated."

For most, it’s a word used once a year in a crossword puzzle. For Russell, it was a specialized tool. He didn't just use it; he orchestrated it. With the gravitas of a seasoned pit boss, he’d lean into the mic and tell a frantic gambler on the other end of the line:

"I completely understand your frustration, sir. It is remarkably easy to feel discombobulated by the ethereal nature of digital slot rotations. Let’s see if we can re-combobulate your account balance together, shall we?"

By midday, the office was in physical pain from suppressed laughter. Russell managed to drop the word into over a dozen calls, sounding so absurdly professional that the bewildered callers—many of whom were already in a state of high-stakes stress—actually started agreeing with his "discombobulation" theory.

Russell didn’t just win the game; he rebranded himself. From that day forward, he was Discombob, a man who proved that even in the dullest call center, you’re only ever one ridiculous word away from a legend.

Memorable moments: The bitter truth

On our way back to Cape Town after a weekend at the Breede River, Russell and I pulled over at a picturesque olive farm. As we strolled toward the farm shop, Russell stopped by a heavily laden tree, reached out, and plucked a plump, dark olive.

He popped it into his mouth and began to chew with a look of pure, Mediterranean relish. "Ooh," he hummed, nodding with approval, "the olives here are absolutely delicious. You have to try one."

I didn't hesitate. I reached for the nearest branch, picked a beautiful-looking specimen, and bit down hard.

The taste was instantaneous and catastrophic. It wasn't just "bitter"—it was a violent, astringent assault on my taste buds that felt like chewing on a piece of toxic chalk soaked in battery acid. I didn't just spit it out; I launched it. The half-masticated olive flew a good five metres across the grove in a projectile arc of pure regret.

Russell immediately erupted in giggles. He leaned forward, opened his mouth, and revealed his own olive—completely untouched and tucked safely under his tongue.

"Ha ha! Got you!" he crowed, finally letting the prop fall to the grass.

I stood there with a mouth that felt like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper, watching him double over with laughter. I’ve since learned that olives must be cured in brine or lye for months before they are remotely edible; unfortunately, I learned it the Russell way.

Memorable moments: The red face and the grin

For reasons that seemed logical at the time, Russell and I stood in the kitchen and decided to settle a debt of honor: a chili-eating competition. The rules were simple—one lethal-looking bird's eye chili each, consumed simultaneously on the count of three.

"One... two... three!" Russell barked, his face a mask of competitive intensity.

I didn't hesitate. I bit down hard, releasing a capsaicin explosion that felt like swallowing a lit blowtorch. Within seconds, the heat was formidable. My vision blurred, my throat constricted, and I felt my face turn a shade of crimson that probably matched the chili itself.

Gagging and desperate, I didn't even have to leave the room. I lunged for the fridge, ripped it open, and grabbed a liter of milk. I chugged it with the frantic energy of a man whose life depended on dairy, milk splashing down my chin as I tried to douse the five-alarm fire in my gullet.

Finally, as the internal blaze subsided into a smoldering ruin, I wiped the milk from my mouth and turned to see how my opponent had fared.

Russell was leaning casually against the counter, looking remarkably cool, calm, and—crucially—completely un-charred. I looked down at his hand. His chili remained perfectly intact, without so much as a tooth mark on it.

He looked at my tear-streaked, milk-mustachioed face and flashed a wide, shameless grin.

"You win!" he chirped.

They say a true friend shares your pain. Russell, apparently, prefers to just supervise it from a safe distance with a front-row seat.

Memorable moments: The natural catalyst

We were spending a weekend at a B&B on the Breede River with Dana and Corrine, two of the most wonderful friends of Russell. Corrine is a literal live wire—a high-energy, extroverted force of nature who is always the beating heart of the party. Dana, by contrast, is more reserved and lovely, possessing a razor-sharp, quiet wit.

As we sat around the dinner table, the conversation turned to the effects of a good vintage. I admitted that if I’m feeling a bit shy, a glass of wine usually helps me find my voice.

"Alcohol is a great form of social lubrication," I remarked, leaning into the comfort of my glass.

Dana nodded thoughtfully, glancing over at her wife, who was no doubt already mid-anecdote at the other end of the table. "Ah yes," she said perfectly. "It works for me, too. But my wife? Corrine needs no lubrication!"

The table erupted. It was the absolute perfect summary of Corrine’s infectious personality—most of us need a catalyst to get the conversation flowing, but Corrine is the chemical reaction. She doesn't need a bottle to get started; she arrived at the party already fully charged and ready to fire.

The Palmiet shadow puppet show

Early in our relationship, Ally and I went camping at Palmiet. We were young, smitten, and—after a few days in the fresh air—feeling particularly adventurous. Late one night, while the rest of the campsite was still gathered around the dying embers of the communal fire, we retreated to our tent for some "private" time.

We were being incredibly careful. We spoke in hushed whispers, moved with what we thought was ninja-like stealth, and made sure our "naughty action" didn't make a sound that would alert the neighbors.

The next morning, my best friend Ivor greeted me with a look of suppressed, agonizing amusement.

"What is it?" I asked, sensing I was the butt of a joke I hadn't heard yet.

"Oh, no," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I can’t say. It’s far too embarrassing."

"Oh, come on," I pressed. "No secrets between friends. Out with it."

He leaned in, his eyes dancing. "Alright, let me give you a little tip for the future, Graeme. If you and Ally are planning to get 'jiggy' in a tent, for the love of God, switch the internal lights off first."

My heart sank as the basic laws of physics—specifically backlighting—hit me.

"Otherwise," he grinned, "you’re not just having a private moment; you’re broadcasting a highly detailed shadow-puppet show to everyone at the campfire. It was a five-star performance, Graeme, but I think the audience is expecting an encore."

I went into that tent a master of discretion; I emerged the accidental star, director, and lead cinematographer of the Palmiet Adult Film Festival.

Memorable moments: The projectile presentation

In 1992, for my final year of Marketing at the University of Cape Town, my friend Rory and I were assigned a presentation on the dark arts of merchandising. We wanted to be legends. We planned to reveal the "tricks of the trade"—how grocery stores put the bakery at the back to force you through the aisles, and how cereal boxes feature characters whose eyes are mathematically angled to lock onto a passing child’s gaze.

Since Google Images didn't exist, I spent days as a guerrilla photographer, snapping high-quality evidence of impulse-buy racks and strategically placed chocolates. We centered our entire grade on these visuals.

The day arrived. We set up my dad’s analog slide projector—a beast of a machine that required manual loading. We were so rushed we skipped a full technical rehearsal, but I was confident. I stood at the front, took a deep breath, and clicked the remote for the first slide.

CLACK-WHIZZZ!

Instead of appearing on the screen, the first slide popped up like a piece of overactive toast and went flying through the air, soaring over the heads of the third row.

Stunned, I pressed the button again. CLACK-WHIZZZ! The second slide followed suit, embarking on its own solo flight across the lecture hall. Rory scrambled to the back, frantically wrestling with the machine, but it had transformed from a projector into a high-velocity catapult.

Doing a visual-heavy presentation without a single image is a special kind of hell. I stuttered through descriptions of "imaginary" cereal boxes while my hard-earned research lay scattered on the floor among the feet of my peers.

Being a student with very high standards, I was devastated. But as we walked out, Rory just shrugged and chuckled and said, "Shit happens, Graeme. No one died."

Rory was right of course. Decades later, the grade is forgotten, but the image of my hard-earned research whizzing through the air like a plastic bird never fails to bring a chuckle. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but in my experience, it often just makes you funnier. Even if it takes a few years to fully appreciate the joke.

Memorable moments: The Rajasthani quicksand

In 1997, I was on a grueling overnight bus journey through the desert of Rajasthan. In the middle of the night, the bus groaned to a halt for a toilet break. Being rural India, there were no facilities; the passengers simply vanished into the darkness to find their own "private" spots.

I decided to walk about fifty metres away from the road to ensure total solitude. I found a promising-looking patch of ground, stepped off the verge, and promptly sank thigh-deep into a thick, sucking sludge.

As I struggled to extricate my leg, an unimaginably foul stench hit me. I realized with a jolt of pure horror that this wasn't mud—this was the desert, after all. I had just stepped into a communal, open-air cesspit. I was thigh-deep in human excrement.

Desperate and gagging, I spotted a large open barrel of water nearby. I spent ten frantic minutes scrubbing the filth off my skin, only to be joined by a local gentleman who walked up and calmly began washing his backside in the same water. It was then I realized I was performing my emergency surgery in the local "bottom-washing" station.

With my pride in tatters and my trousers and shoes beyond saving, I threw them into the desert night. My own luggage was buried at the back of the bus, but Ally’s bag was within reach.

I spent the remainder of that long, dusty journey barefoot, smelling faintly of the "communal barrel," and wearing a pair of Ally’s very skimpy, very tight shorts. The bus driver didn't ask any questions about my new wardrobe, presumably because the smell was enough of an explanation.

Memorable moments: The apple juice grenade

I met Dani on a Tinder date at a pub. She was stunning—fun, charming, and possessed a smile that made me completely forget my surroundings. I was so smitten, in fact, that when I went to the bar to get our ciders, I walked straight back to the table without paying. The bartender had to chase me down, but eventually, I settled the tab and settled into what felt like the start of something special.

I managed to secure a second date at a lovely restaurant in the city. On a rainy evening, I picked her up in my trusty Toyota Corolla. We were driving along, chatting and laughing, when the interior of the car suddenly experienced a violent, liquid explosion.

A deafening BANG echoed from under the passenger seat, followed by a mist of what smelled suspiciously like high-potency cider drenching the entire cabin—and specifically, drenching Dani.

"What the hell was that!?" I shouted, pulling over in a panic.

As it turns out, I had gone grocery shopping over a month prior. A one-litre carton of apple juice had escaped the bag and rolled under the passenger seat, where it had spent four weeks quietly fermenting in the dark. It hadn't just turned into cider; it had turned into a pressurized biological bomb. The rainy-day humidity was apparently the final trigger it needed to detonate.

Dani sat there, dripping with fermented sediment, the car smelling like a brewery's floor. I braced myself for the end of the relationship before it had even begun. Instead, she looked at her soaked rain jacket, looked at my horrified face, and started to laugh. She laughed until she couldn't breathe.

We dated for over a year after that. I learned two very important things from that night: always check under the seats after a grocery run, and hang onto a woman who can find the humor in being hit by a fruit-juice grenade.

Memorable moments: The kick of a mule

In 2023, while working for Volvo in Cambridge, I spent my nights in Duxford and my weekends in London. One particular evening, I was invited to my boss's house for a dinner party with my colleagues—a wonderful, mostly Swedish group.

In an effort to be helpful, I volunteered for kitchen duty. My task seemed simple enough: make the tzatziki by mixing five "cloves" of garlic into the yogurt. Being a culinary novice (and, let’s be honest, a bit of an idiot from time to time), I operated under the assumption that a "clove" was the entire, multi-segmented bulb.

I proceeded to mince five entire heads of garlic into a single bowl of yogurt.

The resulting dip didn't just have a "kick"—it had the concussive force of a mule. Surprisingly, the Swedes—who are famously reserved until the schnapps starts flowing—didn't seem to mind. In fact, as the evening devolved into a raucous affair of toasts and table-dancing to ABBA, I felt compelled to enter the spirit of things. I ate a heroic amount of my own toxic creation.

By the time I stumbled onto the train for the ten-minute ride back to my B&B in Duxford, I was well and truly "tiddly." I closed my eyes for a second and woke up ninety minutes later at Liverpool Street Station in London.

Resigned to my fate, I took the tube to our apartment in Hammersmith and crept into bed, trying not to wake Ally. She didn't stir at first, but as the cloud of five fermented garlic bulbs finally reached her side of the mattress, she recoiled in her sleep.

"Oh my God," she gagged, rolling as far away as the bedframe would allow. "You stink!"

I spent the next three days reeking like a medieval plague ward. I set out to impress my Swedish colleagues with my kitchen skills; I ended up proving that while ABBA is timeless, the scent of fifty garlic cloves is practically eternal.

Memorable moments: The CEO of Christmas

My friend Sean Peche had a father who was a true force of nature. He didn’t just participate in life; he commanded it. He ran a highly successful business, chaired the South African pigeon racing society, and headed the board of parents at our school, St George’s. At every school fete, he was the MC, and at every sports day, his voice boomed across the field with a resonance that made the official PA system look amateur.

In our world, Mr. Peche was the ultimate authority.

One day in high school, Sean made a startling confession about his early childhood. Like all kids, he’d eventually been sat down for "the talk" about the man in the red suit. But because of his father’s relentless energy and CV of leadership roles, Sean had a very unique misunderstanding.

When he was told the classic line, "Santa Claus is your dad," Sean didn't realize it was a metaphor for parents buying presents.

He took it literally. He spent a significant amount of time in a state of deep, existential confusion—unsure whether to be disappointed that the North Pole was a myth, or immensely impressed that his father managed to find time between the pigeon racing and the school board to fly a sleigh around the world in a single night.

Most kids lose their faith in magic; Sean just gained a whole new level of respect for his father’s time-management skills.

Memorable moments: The Franschhoek flush

On a road trip through the Cape with my friend Chrisel, we stopped to visit her aunt, Tannie Tia. She lived in Franschhoek and was the personification of "Old World" Afrikaans elegance—posh, sweet, and surrounded by silver tea services and smartly dressed help.

The atmosphere in the drawing room was hushed and refined, which was a problem, because my stomach was currently staging a violent protest. Chrisel and I had indulged in a massive Indian feast the night before, and the spices were now demanding an immediate exit.

I excused myself and retreated down the hall to the bathroom, where I proceeded to deposit what felt like a biological weapon. I flushed.

Nothing happened.

I waited, heart hammering, and flushed again. Then again. The water rose, the contents swirled, but the exit remained stubbornly closed. Panic, cold and sharp, set in. I looked around the pristine room for a solution. I spotted a small bin, emptied its contents into the sink, and realized the bathtub was my only hope. I filled the bin with water from the bath and began a desperate, manual "power-flush," praying to every deity I could name.

After several frantic buckets and a near-flooding of the floor, the evidence finally vanished. I was sweating, my trousers were suspiciously damp from the splashing, and I’d been gone for what felt like forty-five minutes.

I walked back into the drawing room, trying to look "refined" while frantically rubbing my trousers with my hands to hide the water marks. Tannie Tia looked up with genuine concern.

"Graeme, are you all right? You were gone so long."

"Yes, Tannie," I squeaked. "All good. Just... admiring the tile work."

"Oh, thank goodness!" she sighed with relief. "I was worried you’d gone into the other bathroom. That one is giving us terrible trouble!"

I sat back down, took a sip of my tea, and realized that in the world of high-society etiquette, the difference between a "triumph" and "social exile" is exactly three buckets of bathwater.

A love of smoothies runs in the family !

And what colour coordination between blouse and smoothie !

Photographing planes at Sydney Airport and surrounds

A really fun morning photographing planes coming and going at Sydney Airport with my Photography Meetup group. Something completely different!

The shooters at the ready ...

The planes

Is it a plane, is it a bird ....  ?

The scenery