Matt becomes a firefighter

After a rigorous bout of training, Matt has become a voluntary firefighter and will join his friend and housemate Glen in fighting fires in the Western Cape. Doesn't he look great in his gear!

Memorable moments: The Russian compliment

I can be a bit of a burper from time to time. When a good meal or a cold drink hits the spot, there are moments when nothing feels quite as honest as letting out a deep, contented belch.

My sister, Jo, has never been a fan.

Over the years, Jo cultivated a particular facial expression reserved exclusively for my domestic transgressions: "The Look." It was a masterpiece of cold, withering disapproval designed to keep her older brother in line, and growing up, I found it genuinely formidable. The Look was instantly deployed for the cardinal sins of bodily noise—belching at the table, theatrical flatulence, and the unpardonable crime of failing to wash my hands after using the toilet.

Her childhood bedroom shared a wall with the loo, turning her into an involuntary acoustic auditor. She would sit in silence, listening intently for the telltale sequence of sounds. If the roar of the flush was not immediately followed by the distinct hiss of running tap water, her voice would pierce the drywall with absolute authority: "Wash your hands!"

Yet despite Jo’s vigilant policing, my gastrointestinal expressiveness was practically preordained. It is hard not to be a burper when you descend from an unbroken dynasty of them.

Dad was an unapologetic burper, particularly after cracking open a cold beer. Whenever he let one loose, it was never aggressive or uncouth; it was delivered with an aura of pure, unadulterated contentment. It was simply the sound of a relaxed man feeling entirely at peace in his own home, and it was one of his many quiet quirks that I found completely endearing.

The habit went back another generation. Dad got it directly from his mother—my beloved Granny.

Every Sunday, Jo and I would head over to Granny and Grandpa’s flat for a traditional roast chicken lunch, piled high with vegetables and followed by dishes of junket, a sweet, milky dessert I absolutely adored. Granny was otherwise the quintessential portrait of quiet, refined, ladylike decorum. Yet without fail, once the plates were cleared and the roast was settled, this gentle matriarch would let out a surprisingly robust, uncharacteristic belch.

Before anyone could raise an eyebrow, Granny would look around the table with absolute composure and offer her standard cultural defense: in Russia, she would explain, a hearty belch after a feast is not an insult at all. It is customary—an essential, implicit compliment to the chef signaling that the meal was thoroughly enjoyed.

Armed with that impeccable heritage, what chance did I ever have?

Society has an odd, squeamish relationship with the harmless noises of human biology. We treat burps and passing wind as catastrophic social breaches, despite the fact that digestion is a universal, non-negotiable process that clearly demands pressure relief. Clamping down on basic biology in the name of polite etiquette has always seemed slightly backwards to me.

As Granny knew, and as Dad so effortlessly demonstrated from his armchair: far better out than in.

Pondo Hike

Jo, Antony and Matt did the Pondo Hike in Transkei with Rob, Dawn, Russell, Brandon and others in July.  Dawn's future mobility is uncertain with her condition and this was a chance for her and lots of special people in her life to share a beautiful experience together.

Jo does her 1st half marathon

 What a wonderful achievement!!

Stories about dad: The backstreet pick-up

For most of our youth, Dad was decidedly, magnificently uncool.

His everyday wardrobe consisted of aggressively sensible button-downs paired with high socks pulled taut against knee-length, unfashionable shorts. But his absolute crowning glory of uncoolness was his fleet of cars.

He owned two vehicles: a battered red Volkswagen Beetle and an aging, scuffed VW Type 3 Variant station wagon. Today, vintage Beetles are prized counter-culture icons, but back then, an old red Bug merely functioned as a bright beacon drawing unwanted attention to your total lack of street cred.

The Variant was worse. It was painted a truly dreadful, unappetizing mustard yellow, covered in scratches, and treated entirely as an industrial workhorse. Dad used it primarily to haul his heavy model locomotives and track gear back and forth from his beloved train club. To him, the aesthetics were utterly irrelevant. Being naturally gifted with tools and mechanics, he kept both engines purring in immaculate mechanical order. As long as the pistons fired sweetly, he saw zero reason to waste good money replacing a car just because the exterior looked like it had survived a minor skirmish.

My sister Jo, however, was in the full throes of teenage image preservation. The mustard Variant was her ultimate mortal enemy.

Whenever Dad came to collect us after the final bell, Jo laid down strict tactical protocols: under no circumstances was the yellow monstrosity permitted to breach the school gates. Dad was politely instructed to park two blocks away in a discreet side alley, allowing her to slink out to the car under cover of relative anonymity.

Dad never took offense. He simply took his post in the backstreet, engine ticking over quietly, perfectly amused by her youthful paranoia.

Then came his fiftieth birthday—and with it, an astonishing, wholesale metamorphosis.

It was as if a switch flipped overnight. Dad grew a full, distinguished beard that immediately gave his face immense warmth, gravitas, and character. He ditched the drab conservative palette and started striding around in vibrant, brightly patterned short-sleeve shirts—pioneering the vibrant aesthetic years before Nelson Mandela made the Madiba shirt a global fashion statement.

To complete the transformation, he inherited some money from his own father and promptly traded the dusty air-cooled fleet for a sleek, second-hand BMW.

In one glorious leap, our quiet, sock-pulling dad had become the coolest man in Cape Town.

The irony, of course, was cruel in its timing. Jo would have given anything to lean against that gleaming BMW right outside the main gates as crowds of schoolmates walked past. But by the time Dad finally arrived at peak cool, her school days were behind her.

Memorable moments: The four-person conveyor belt

There are certain family rituals from childhood that carry a special kind of warmth—simple routines that, in retrospect, anchor an entire upbringing.

In our household, dinner itself was rarely a grand conversational affair. We were very much a family that ate from trays balanced on our laps in front of the television, eyes glued to the screen while silence reigned. The real connection, as it turned out, was scheduled for immediately afterward.

Once the credits rolled, the entire family decamped to the kitchen for a communal washing-up session. It was in that small, steamy space that the day was actually unpacked and the real conversations began.

We ran a remarkably intricate, four-person assembly line.

Mum took the helm at the sink, washing each item down in a sink of hot, sudsy water. I stood beside her armed with a tea towel, drying each dripping plate as it emerged from the bubbles. Once dry, I would pass the plate to Dad. Dad would then turn slightly and hand the plate to Jo. And Jo would finally place it onto the shelf in the cupboard.

Dad, quite clearly, had negotiated the easiest job on the planet—a human relay baton whose sole duty was transferring ceramic goods across an eighteen-inch gap of linoleum. But nobody ever resented it. It was never about industrial efficiency; it was about the easy, rhythmic rhythm of all four of us working side-by-side in harmony.

That childhood assembly line left an indelible mark on me. To this day, I have an enduring, genuine love for washing dishes.

Whenever I’m on a weekend getaway with a group of friends, I am always the first to volunteer for sink duty. I love the simple, tactile satisfaction of it—the warmth of the water, the clean scent of the soap, and the quiet joy of watching grease and chaos turn into sparkling order. But more than anything, I love the kitchen companionship: the unhurried, companionable banter between the washer, the drier, and the designated putter-awayer.

Memorable moments: The twinkle behind the camcorder

Every Christmas morning when Jo and I were growing up, our household fell into a rhythm that felt entirely sacred.

Gran and Gramps would arrive, Mum would pull a hot tray of freshly baked mince pies out of the oven, and the entire family would congregate in the lounge to open presents. Christmas carols drifted softly through the room from Dad’s music system.

Then came the inevitable ceremony within the ceremony: Dad would haul out his heavy video camera, rest it against his shoulder, and hit record.

Without fail, Jo and I would immediately groan and protest. "Oh no, Dad! Put it away! It makes us feel so on show!"

Dad wouldn’t say much in return. His eyes would simply twinkle with quiet amusement, and he would keep on filming anyway.

Because he held his ground, everything was captured for posterity. The camera panned steadily around the circle, recording each of us as our turn arrived to unwrap a gift. There were the sentimental treasures, but mostly there were the gloriously eccentric family jokes: Jo presenting Gramps with a hand-knitted willy warmer, or Gramps handing Dad a small parcel with a card that read, "For a man who likes a bit on the side"—which, to everyone’s relief and laughter, turned out to be a jar of English mustard.

Dad has been gone for a long time now, having passed away in 1995. But those tapes - spanning Christmases, family milestones, and road trips to Zululand, the Drakensberg and Swartberg Pass - have become our family's most cherished possessions. Now digitized and lovingly preserved, they are priceless windows into a world of laughter and youth that we can revisit whenever we need to.

As teenagers, Jo and I thought Dad was just being persistently annoying with his gadgets. In reality, it was pure wisdom. Dad understood something fundamental about time that we were far too young to grasp: that the ordinary, slightly embarrassing moments of family life are the very things that become sacred once the people in them are gone. It remains one of the greatest, most enduring legacies he ever gave us.

Family spend a few days in Hermanus

Mum, Mike, Jo, Antony and Matt rented a house in Hermanus for a few days. The whales did a spectacular display!