Dad was never the flamboyant, life-of-the-party type. Left entirely to his own devices, he wanted nothing more than to retreat into the quiet solitude of his workshop, spending uninterrupted hours milling brass and steel for his beloved steam locomotives.
In large social gatherings, his natural shyness took over. Even at the legendary braais hosted by his friend Stan—who lived right on the beach in Melkbosstrand and had an actual miniature train track winding through his garden—Dad was often the quiet, observant figure lingering gently on the periphery rather than commanding the room.
Yet introversion was only half the picture. With a select circle of close companions, he completely blossomed.
Around people like Derek, his dental partner John Sawkins, and especially Jimmy—a lovely, elderly friend who lived just down our road by the local park—Dad was warm, utterly relaxed, and full of effortless camaraderie. In those intimate settings, there was endless laughter.
You see, Dad’s quiet reserve was paired with a wicked, playful sense of fun that leaned unapologetically toward the cheeky, naughty side. Whenever he launched into a joke or an irreverent anecdote, those striking green eyes would dance and sparkle. More often than not, he’d find his own punchlines so genuinely hilarious that his laughter would dissolve into an affectionate, wheezing coughing fit before he could even finish the sentence.
That mischievous streak was on full display every Christmas morning.
Dad delighted in wrapping practical items in cheeky double entendres. One year, he handed me a carefully wrapped package with a tag that read: "To help with your screwing technique." Inside was a brand-new set of screwdrivers. Another year, he presented Gramps with a parcel marked: "For a man who likes a bit on the side"—which was, of course, a jar of English mustard.
His cheeky imagination peaked when I was invited to a 21st birthday party by a ballroom dancing friend named Sally.
The invitation called for fancy dress with the theme "Dream Time: dress as your favorite dream or your worst nightmare." It was ripe for creative interpretation. When I mentioned the dilemma at home, Dad didn't miss a beat.
"Put on a pair of pyjamas, jump fully clothed into the shower, and go as a wet dream!" he offered with a grin.
As brilliant as the concept was, a soaking-wet pair of flannel pyjamas on a freezing Cape Town winter night felt like a swift route to hypothermia. Sally and I opted for the warmer, safer route, heading into town to a costume hire shop instead.
Dad’s irreverent wit remains one of the qualities I cherish most about my memories of him. Behind the quiet exterior, the conservative shirts, and the steady dentist's hands was a man who saw the absurd, playful side of human nature and refused to take life too seriously. It was a wonderful legacy to grow up around—and the very spark from which I inherited my own lifelong love of humor and mischief.
