The Willow Road front row

During our year sharing the Willow Road house, Russell, Ally, and I formed a tight-knit, happy trio. Ally was already a wonderful cook, but she possessed that restless drive to get even better. She eventually signed up for a professional cooking course held over eight successive weeks.

The arrangement was "glory of glories" for Russell and me. Ally would go to her class, they would cook up a storm, and then she would bring the evening's creations home for us to "test." To say the food was delicious would be an understatement; it was an absolute delight.

As the weeks went by, Russell and I developed a ritual of our own. Ten minutes before Ally was due to arrive, we would spring into action. We’d drag the couch across the living room and position it directly facing the front door. We would sit there side-by-side, plates balanced on our laps and cutlery clutched in our hands, literally salivating in anticipation.

Every week, when Ally finally let herself in, she was met with the same ridiculous sight: two adoring, starving men staring at her with the hopeful intensity of puppies waiting for a treat.

Ally would always burst into laughter at the spectacle, and then we would all tuck in. It remains one of my favorite memories of our time together—a perfect slice of domestic happiness where the only thing better than the food was the theater of waiting for it.

Memoral moments: The duvet reveal

One evening, I decided to take Mack for a walk. For once, I also brought along Milly—my housemates Matt and Sharmista’s year-old pug-spaniel cross. We headed toward Waverton Park, a good three-kilometer trek that took us across Brennan Park and through several busy suburban streets.

When we arrived, the park was shrouded in darkness. There were no lights, but in a moment of misplaced confidence, I let both Mack and Milly off their leads. I walked for a few more minutes, soaking in the night air, before a cold realization hit me: Milly was no longer visible.

I began to panic. I called out "Milly! Milly!" into the blackness. I paced up and down the park, my anxiety spiraling. I even enlisted the help of other walkers, who joined the search with flashlights and sympathetic faces. But after an hour of scouring the shadows, there was still no sign of her.

With a heavy, thudding heart, I began the long walk back to King Street. The guilt was overwhelming. How was I going to break it to them? I had lost their dog in the dark, three kilometers from home. As I crossed the multiple roads back to our house, I rehearsed my apology over and over, bracing for their devastation.

I reached the house and found the front door open. I walked in and saw Matt and Sharmista on the couch, wrapped in a duvet and watching TV. I took a deep breath, my voice trembling, ready to deliver the terrible news.

Suddenly, a small head popped out from the folds of the duvet. Two big, dark eyes blinked at me. It was Milly.

The relief was so intense I nearly collapsed. How a one-year-old pug-spaniel managed to navigate three kilometers of dark parks and busy roads entirely on her own, I will never know. Matt and Sharmista looked up at me with a smile, completely unaware that anything untoward had happened.

I never had the heart to tell them that their dog had spent the last hour dicing with death on the streets of Sydney. I just took a deep breath, sat down, and marveled at the secret, navigational genius of a dog who clearly knew the way home better than I did.

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 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: The bed-wetting bandit

A few years back, my housemates Matt and Sharmista asked if they could get a puppy. In a moment of spectacular lapse in judgment, I said yes. It is a decision I ended up regretting with every fiber of my being.

Enter Milly: a pug-spaniel cross who looked deceivingly sweet but was, in reality, a portable source of immense psychological stress.

Our relationship got off to a literal "crash" start. During her first week, Matt asked if I’d mind her for a moment. I left her downstairs to take a quick shower, only to be interrupted by a haunting howl and a sickening thud. Milly had attempted to scale the stairs, slipped through the gaps between the steps, and plummeted onto the hardwood floor below. I rushed her to the vet, my heart hammering against my ribs, convinced I’d presided over a tragedy. Thankfully, she was fine, but my nervous system was not.

A few weeks later, she escalated her campaign by sneaking into my room and peeing on my bed. Not just once, but several times. I was far from impressed, and Mack—the undisputed Lord of the Manor—found her high-spirited antics utterly "pesky."

The chaos of the household, combined with other factors, eventually led my doctor to prescribe me some Xanax for anxiety. One afternoon, I made the fatal mistake of leaving my bedroom door ajar. I returned to find a scene that looked like a canine rockstar's final hotel room: Milly was sprawled on my bed, surrounded by an open bottle and pills scattered across the linens.

For the second time in a matter of months, I was racing a "horror of a dog" to the vet to have her stomach pumped.

I have never felt a sense of relief quite like the day Matt, Sharmista, and their pharmacological-adventurer of a dog finally moved out. Mack and I watched them go, finally reclaiming our quiet sanctuary.

And just like that, peace returned.

Mack resumed his rightful throne, I resumed my sanity, and somewhere out there, Milly continued her experimental research into pharmaceuticals—now, thankfully, under someone else’s supervision.

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 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: A paste-y complexion

After a lifetime of skin neglect, I decided it was time to embrace a "new me." I bought a haul of all-natural products and committed to a daily moisturizing regimen. Being a beginner, I figured more was better.

Early one morning, still navigating the bathroom in a sleep-deprived fog, I squeezed out a heroic amount of cream and began vigorously massaging it into my face. I rubbed and I waited for the "glow."

When I finally looked in the mirror, I didn't see a rejuvenated man. I saw a frightful, opaque sea of white. My face looked less like it had been moisturized and more like it had been professionally plastered.

I squinted at the tube on the counter. It wasn't the high-end botanical lotion. It was the brand-new, all-natural toothpaste I’d bought the day before.

I may still have the wrinkles, but at least my forehead is now 99% protected against cavities.

Memorable moments: The searing truth

I had just finished scrubbing my balcony with a cleaning agent so potent it probably required a permit. Naturally, when my housemate Sharmista mentioned she’d left a bowl of popcorn for me in the kitchen, I dove in with both hands—completely forgetting to wash them first.

One handful later, my mouth was an inferno.

A searing, localized burn spread across my tongue. My heart hammered. I’ve done it, I thought. I’ve seasoned my snack with industrial toxins. I bolted for the bathroom, frantically rinsing my mouth over and over, bracing for the inevitable call to Poison Control and a very embarrassing hospital admission.

Eventually, the "chemical" fire subsided. I crawled into bed, relieved to have survived my own negligence, though certain I’d scorched my internal organs.

The next morning, I bumped into Sharmista in the kitchen.

"Did you enjoy the chili popcorn I made?" she asked with a grin. "That spice really gives it a kick, doesn't it?"

What a cutie!

The three baby possums are starting to climb confidently now. Soon it will be time to leave the nest.

 

My possums are growing up fast

They are so gorgeous. I'm in love with my little family.

It was pouring with rain so I put up an umbrella!

Possum with 2 babies nesting on my balcony

 I couldn't be more thrilled!  They are so gorgeous.

One of the babies peeking out

As you can see, they are nesting in my pot plant!

Regrouting my balcony tiles

The grouting between my balcony tiles was becoming discoloured so I regrouted it. Very happy with how it came out. I regrouted Martin's balcony too.

Painted rocks on my balcony

When I was in Cape Town, I bought some rocks from Mikaela, a very talented friend of Jo's,  to add to my collection on my balcony. Aren't they beautiful!
 

Mikaela, the artist

Timber replacement project

We have had a lot of our rotten timber replaced.

My beloved Buddha statues

I've been collecting Buddha statues for several years.  I love them. They make me feel so peaceful.

 

Brennan Park across from my house

How lucky am I to live across from a park like this!  These photos were taken early in the morning.

 

Glass panel

 Thanks for the idea, Jo!!

 

 

Mackie

Mackie loves basking in the sunshine on the balcony.