Moments of excitement dad and and I shared

While Dad was prone to stress at times and could get wound up by everyday pressures, he never lost touch with the excited boy inside him. Whenever a genuine milestone was on the horizon, the worry vanished and a radiant, infectious energy took its place—sweeping father and son up in the exact same wave of shared elation.

The earliest of those waves arrived with the construction of our swimming pool.

Jo and I were water babies through and through, and the realization that we were getting a pool of our own in the garden set our childhood imaginations on fire. We monitored every stage of the excavation like site foremen: the raw dirt crater carved into the lawn, the structural mesh, the smooth coats of render, and finally the brilliant, dazzling coat of sparkling white plaster.

Then came the agonising finale: the garden hose went in.

Jo and I hovered over the coping stones, willing the waterline to rise. As the saying goes, a watched pool never fills. The trickle seemed glacially slow, and our impatience was vibrating off the charts. Dad stood beside us watching the water creep up the slope, his green eyes dancing with our anticipation—until his own restraint snapped.

The pool wasn't anywhere near full; it had barely reached the shallow-end shelf, hovering somewhere around our knees.

Dad looked down at us with a sudden, conspiratorial grin. "Right then. In you go!"

We didn't hesitate for a split second. We leaped straight into that chilly, half-filled basin, splashing and tumbling through the shallows in a burst of sheer, delirious joy that remains one of the most vivid, sparkling memories of my entire youth.

Dad celebrated the milestone in his own signature style: he invited Gramps over, and the two of them sat side by side on the specially commissioned "beer step" built into the wall, clinking cold lagers in triumphant satisfaction. That pool went on to host decades of family joy—cooling off after scorching summer days, endless diving contests, and boisterous rounds of midnight Marco Polo.

A few years later, the excitement shifted back to the rails.

I was there for the culmination of Dad's greatest engineering feat: the completion of his very first live-steam locomotive. It had demanded six long years of painstaking craftsmanship. Every single screw, valve, and brass fitting had been turned and threaded by his own two hands on the lathe. It wasn't just a model; it was a breathing, mechanical masterpiece.

When the day finally arrived to fire up the miniature boiler at the club track for its maiden run, Dad was as giddy as a schoolboy on the last day of term. His pride and delight were so radiant, so completely infectious, that the whole family was buzzing. Climbing into the carriage behind his gleaming engine and feeling the real steam chug under his power, watching Dad beam from the driver's bench, was pure magic.

That mutual thrill came full circle when Dad took me into town to buy my very first electric model train set. We picked out the iconic South African Blue Train, complete with an expanse of glistening track.

To make the day utterly unforgettable, Dad went to a high shelf at home and brought down an old Hornby set from his own childhood—superb vintage steam engines and carriages that happened to be fully compatible with the new lines. "Here," he said, handing over his past. "These are yours now."

With that single gesture, my small railway empire exploded. In the storeroom right next to his workshop, while the scent of his cutting oil drifted through the doorway, I spent hundreds of blissful hours orchestrating lines and running Dad's vintage rolling stock alongside my shiny Blue Train.

He did the exact same thing with his stamps. During my school years, I fell into a feverish obsession with philately, pouring every cent of my pocket money into British mint issues and first day covers. I organized them with meticulous, reverent care.

Dad watched this quiet discipline unfold. One afternoon, he produced his own album—a rich, historic archive of classic English and South African stamps he had preserved since he was a lad.

He didn't just casually toss it my way. He looked at me with genuine respect and said, "I can see how much you value your stamps, Graeme, and how beautifully you look after them. I want to give you my collection—not just as a gift, but for you to be the official curator of it."

My collection doubled in a single heartbeat. It was an overwhelming, chest-swelling moment of honor. I spent weeks happily lost in the quiet thrill of integrating his youth into mine, cataloging history under the desk lamp.

Dad was always quietly engineering joy behind the scenes. When Jo and I dreamed of high vantage points, he built us a sturdy timber platform high in the branches of the backyard tree. I spent countless afternoons perched up there, legs dangling over the edge, gazing down across the blue expanse of the pool and feeling like the king of the world.

Later, when I was in my second year at university, an inheritance from my grandfather gave me the rare, life-changing opportunity to buy my first home in Fernwood Estate, tucked beneath the mountain near Kirstenbosch Gardens.

House hunting at that age is an overwhelming maze, but Dad became my steady, invaluable seer. He had an instinctive eye for structural bones, plumbing quirks, and practical value, guiding me patiently past the duds until we found the perfect gem. When the keys were in hand, Dad and Mum rolled up their sleeves and spent days beside me rolling paint onto the walls. His pride in seeing his son plant roots so close to nature was tangible in every brushstroke.

And then came the purchase of our family beach house in Melkbosstrand—perched right against the sand, opening onto crashing surf and endless horizons, ushering in a whole new chapter of shared coastal excitement.

Looking back across all those milestones—from leaping into twelve inches of pool water to holding the title deeds of a home—I realize that Dad's greatest gift wasn't just the things he built with his hands. It was the generous, unreserved way he stepped into our joy, offering his tools, his treasures, and his whole heart to make our world that much bigger.

What the quiet man left behind

When I look at the landscape of my life—at the things that bring me pure, unadulterated joy, the rituals that ground me, and the deep obsessions that fill my days—I see the hand of one man.

I am, in almost every way that matters, the living continuation of my father’s quiet passions.

Dad was a gifted photographer with a natural eye. You could see it instantly in the framing of his prints: a patience for light, composition, and human moments. Both my sister Jo and I inherited that precise visual gene. Along with Mum, Dad had an instinctive urge to keep a record, charting our childhoods frame by frame. When he wasn't carrying his still camera, he was hoisting his video recorder, persistently documenting our lives—filming the sacred, hilarious chaos of Christmas morning present-openings despite Jo and me groaning from behind our wrapping paper that we felt far too on-show. Later in life, that very same archival impulse became a defining part of who I am: an unshakeable need to capture beauty for posterity, to preserve family stories, and to build Life Trove, my beloved personal blog.

He gave me my wanderlust. He loaded me into the car for sweeping, formative road trips along the Garden Route to Knysna, through the rugged stone canyons of the Swartberg Pass, and into the game reserves of Zululand. Those journeys ran on an easy, unspoken synergy: me pressed against the glass with my binoculars, tracking birds in the bush, while Dad leaned into his camera to record our passage. Long drives, open horizons, and the thrill of discovery became part of my bloodstream.

He gave me my soundtrack. His cherished stereo system—a piece of equipment he treated with immense pride and care—played the backdrop to my youth. It was a joyful, eclectic rotation: Olivia Newton-John, the Grease soundtrack, ABBA, country classics, and the grand, soaring symphonies he loved, especially Richard Clayderman and the disco-orchestral hits of Hooked on Classics. Decades later, instrumental and classical music remains my truest comfort.

He gave me my adoration for dogs. Growing up, our home was never complete without four-legged companions: Cindy, Scamp, Tina, and Meg. I can still see Dad standing at the top of the driveway, firing tennis balls into the distance, or throwing his arms wide as he arrived home, sending Tina into frantic, ecstatic puddles of canine delight. That pure, uncomplicated love for dogs has anchored me across my entire adult life.

He gave me my love for screen and story. Our family was among the first on the block to get a television set, and later a VHS player. Saturday nights were a sacred household liturgy: settling onto the sofa with coffee and chocolate to watch Magnum, P.I., The A-Team, MacGyver, and Knight Rider, or getting swept up in grand television epics like Little House on the Prairie and The Thorn Birds. He and Mum would drive me out to Cavendish Square to catch classic cinema like The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

He passed on his fascination with history. Dad was captivated by the Second World War—the very conflict where my mum's dad (my gramps) had served—and he sat rapt through every episode of The World at War. Watching it beside him ignited my own lifelong appetite for history and documentary. He cultivated my imagination with books, introducing me to Jock of the Bushveld and a beloved childhood tale about a blind lumberjack and his faithful dog that permanently hooked me on reading.

He gave me his humor—and that unmistakable, mischievous, naughty streak. Dad had striking green eyes, the exact shade I see in the mirror today. Whenever he delivered a cheeky double entendre, those green eyes would dance and sparkle with delight. More often than not, he would find his own punchline so utterly funny that his laughter would dissolve into an affectionate, wheezing coughing fit before the sentence was even finished.

He taught me the sacred art of the passion project. In his backyard workshop, surrounded by heavy metal lathes, cutting oil, and tools, Dad spent thousands of patient hours building miniature, coal-fired steam locomotives from raw steel. It was his ultimate sanctuary. He poured his creative soul into those engines, finding immense pride in their craftsmanship and sharing that devotion with kindred spirits like Jimmy, Derek, and Stan. I didn't inherit his mechanical hands, but I inherited the exact same soul: that fundamental need to retreat into blissful solitude, to lose myself in passion projects like Life Trove and Wisdom Trove, and to connect deeply with the rare few who share those devotions.

Above all else, Dad gave me my love of the natural world. He loved sleeping out on the patio beneath the open night sky—a habit I still treasure. He loved the ocean, catching Indian Ocean swells on his white polystyrene board, forging my own passion for open-water bodysurfing. He led our weekend pilgrimages to Constantia Nek, where we walked beneath the trees gathering pine cones to feed the family hearth. He guided me up Table Mountain through the rocky cleft of Skeleton Gorge, and he paddled alongside me through the desert canyons of the Orange River.

And from him came my deepest love of camping.

My absolute fondest memories of Dad reside in our annual "boys-only" camping trips to Uilenskraal, just outside Hermanus. Grandpa, Dad, and I would pile into Dad’s mustard-yellow Variant and make the pilgrimage to the coast. We always pitched camp in the exact same spot beneath an old, familiar tree.

The ritual was unchanging. We would drive heavy wooden pegs into the earth with a solid rubber mallet to erect the great orange tent for Dad and Grandpa, followed by my own smaller tent nearby. We'd unfold the weathered camp table and chairs, take a long walk along the tranquil waters of the lagoon, and settle into the evening.

At night, Dad and I would slip away for a stroll through the adjacent campsite, wandering amidst hundreds of dark, dilapidated caravans. In the gloom, the rows of silent vans felt spooky and mysterious, but I never felt a single prickle of fear. Walking in the dark beside him, safe inside the shelter of his gentle presence, I would often be overcome by a sudden, private swell of love so profound that my eyes would literally well up with tears. On the way back to the tents, we'd duck into the little camp shop to pick up bars of mint chocolate.

The mornings were a feast. All three of us possessed formidable appetites. We would haul out an ancient, heavy iron frying pan and balance it over the heat, piling it high with bacon, eggs, sliced bananas, thick bread, and tomatoes. The sizzle and rich, gorgeous aroma rising into the salt air was pure, intoxicating anticipation.

When I was young, I didn't see the depth of what I had.

Gramps was the larger-than-life figure in our family orbit—flamboyant, charismatic, outgoing, and effortlessly demonstrative. As a boy, I idolized that swagger. I held Gramps up as the hero on the pedestal, and in doing so, I undervaluated Dad’s quiet, self-effacing reserve. I took his patience for granted. I pushed against his steady boundaries during my prickly teenage years, unable to comprehend the immense gift of a man who ruled not with an iron fist or performative charm, but with steady, unconditional kindness.

Dad passed away in 1995. He left us far too early, when I was still too young to understand how quickly the runway ends.

What I wouldn't give to sit across from him today. To have a quiet hour in the sun, to share these rich, enduring passions with him as an adult, and to finally thank him properly for the entire architecture of my life.

I cannot pull up a folding chair beside him at Uilenskraal. I cannot ride beside him through the Swartberg Pass, or step into the oil-scented air of his workshop to watch him turn brass on the lathe.

Yet every time I frame a photograph through the viewfinder, every time I hike a rugged trail, every time I pitch a tent under the trees, throw a ball for a dog, or smile at a cheeky joke while my green eyes twinkle—I realize he never truly left. He is woven into the very fabric of how I experience this earth.

He gave me the best of who I am; and in every joy I carry, my father lives on.

Stories about dad: Dad’s petrol rebellions

My dad was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a reckless rule-breaker. In almost every arena of life, he was a steady, methodical man who respected boundaries, followed instructions, and kept well within the lines.

Except when it came to petrol.

The moment volatile hydrocarbons were involved, a rogue, undercover operative emerged from inside the mild-mannered dentist.

Every year, our family embarked on an annual holiday to Eight Bells, a lovely guest farm nestled in the mountains near Mossel Bay. The ritual always began in the pitch black of five in the morning, loading into the car while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep.

About halfway into the six-hour journey, with the fuel gauge hovering uncomfortably near empty, Dad would execute a maneuver worthy of a Cold War thriller. At the exact same undisclosed spot along the route every year, he would peel off the highway and pull deep into a concealed clearing out of sight of passing traffic.

While Mum unpacked breakfast—a Tupperware tub of cold sausages and pungent hard-boiled eggs whose sulfurous aroma I dreaded—Dad got down to business.

He would cast a furtive, conspiratorial glance across the empty veld to ensure no police patrols were lurking, pop the boot, and hoist out a heavy jerry can of illicit fuel. Under South Africa’s strict oil embargo and rationing laws of the era, hoarding and transporting private reserves of fuel like this was entirely illegal. Dad would place a funnel into the neck of the fuel tank and pour the bootleg petrol directly into the car, his eyes darting toward the tarmac like an international smuggler topping up between borders.

The dangerous streak didn't end on the highway; it was an essential fixture of our weekend family braais.

Dad cooked over a colossal half-barrel he had personally sliced and welded from a full steel drum in his workshop. His fire-building was a masterclass in structural engineering: he laid out thick logs in an immaculate, hollow rectangle, meticulously crisscrossing the timber to create an architectural chimney.

Any ordinary backyard cook might reach for dry twigs, pine cones, or scrunched-up newspaper to coax the fire to life. Not Dad.

He would stride over with his beloved container of petrol and generously douse the entire timber structure in fuel until the logs were thoroughly soaked. Next came the choreography: he would take precisely two measured paces backward, strike a match, and flick it into the hollow core.

WOOSH!

It was less an ignition than a localized sonic boom. The air would displace with a tremendous roar of heat and light, instantly engulfing the drum in a towering inferno of orange flame. The logs were roaring within a split-second.

Standing before the blast, his eyebrows intact and the heat reflecting in his green eyes, Dad would wear an expression of supreme, quiet satisfaction. It was as though the secret stuntman buried deep within his soul had been granted his ritual fix, leaving him thoroughly appeased and ready to return to his peaceful, risk-averse life until the next tank needed filling.

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.

The wonderful Dolly Parton

Dolly Parton was a big part of my childhood and something of an icon in our family. We listened to quite a lot of country music in those days, and Dolly was a firm favourite—especially “I Will Always Love You” and “Jolene,” two songs I have loved ever since. Her popularity only seemed to climb as the decades passed, until she became one of the rare figures in an increasingly divided America whom almost everyone could agree on. Much of that affection came from her personality: her warmth, humour, generosity, authenticity and wonderful ability never to take herself too seriously. I was deeply saddened today to hear that she has died at the age of 80. She felt like one of those enduring presences who would somehow always be there.

Edit

I Will Always Love You

 

Jolene

 

Working 9 to 5

I also love Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You,” which transformed Dolly’s gentle country song into one of the great vocal performances in popular music. It came about when Kevin Costner suggested the song for The Bodyguard after another choice fell through. Whitney’s soaring rendition became a worldwide phenomenon and introduced Dolly’s remarkable songwriting to a vast new audience.

Pure nostalgia: Bruce Fordyce and the Comrades Marathon

Another sportsperson I was mesmerised by as a child was Bruce Fordyce. Every year it was a family ritual to watch the Comrades Marathon on TV, and every year, without fail, it seemed to be dominated by a slight, small-framed but giant legend of a man. Fordyce won the race a record nine times, eight of them consecutively from 1981 to 1988, before adding a ninth victory in 1990—a feat no other runner in the race's history has matched. The Comrades itself is a brutal test of human endurance: roughly 90 kilometres between Durban and Pietermaritzburg, alternating each year between the punishing "up run" and the fast, unforgiving "down run," a course that has broken far stronger-looking men than the wiry Fordyce. What made watching him so captivating was the contrast between his unassuming build and the sheer dominance he exerted, often pulling away from the field in the second half of the race while his rivals fell away behind him. Another vivid memory was the cut-off, when an official would stand with his back to the finish line and fire a gun to mark the brutal end of the race for anyone who hadn't made it in time. Sometimes heart-wrenching, with exhausted runners crawling on hands and knees just to beat the gun, it was totally captivating viewing.

Pure nostalgia: Two great tennis rivalries that mesmerised me as a child

Though I only properly picked up a racket later in life, tennis has grown to become one of my absolute favorite passions. That love is rooted in vivid memories of my youth, mesmerised by the sport's golden era of rivalries. I was captivated by the contrast of Björn Borg and John McEnroe—especially their titanic 1980 Wimbledon final, a grueling 55-game epic capped by a legendary 34-point tiebreak. Borg's ice-cold baseline discipline against McEnroe's twitchy, improvisational genius at the net was a clash of entire philosophies, and that tiebreak alone remains one of the greatest passages of play the sport has ever produced.

Equally thrilling were the massive clashes between Martina Navratilova and Chris Evert. Eighty matches over fifteen years, with the same essential contrast that made Borg-McEnroe so gripping: Evert's relentless precision against Navratilova's athletic aggression, each forcing the other to keep reinventing her game. These two rivalries defined the sporting landscape of my childhood, and watching them push each other to unimaginable heights planted the seed for a lifelong love of the game—one that eventually led me to pick up a racket of my own.

Ag please daddy!

Ah, the nostalgia!

Nostalgic South African adverts from the past

Here are some adverts from the 80's that are enmeshed in my memory and the fabric of my childhood.

Cremora "It's not inside, its on top!"

   

Timotei "It's so mild, you can wash your hair everyday"

  

Cadburys Lunch Bar "Mac Atini Makatini"

  

Chomp "You'll just have to grow some more kid"

   

Jan Spies Cremora

  

Castrol GTX: "A can of the best"

 

Blackcat Peanut Butter

Vaseline intensive care

Redro

Hooked on classics

On our Zululand trip, through Antony, I rediscovered the album Hooked on Classics — one we listened to over and over on childhood car journeys in the 1980s. Dad absolutely loved it. The moment it started playing, the nostalgia came flooding back. It really was a phenomenon at the time, becoming one of the bestselling classical crossover albums ever and introducing a whole generation to classical music through its catchy disco-style arrangements.

 

Memorable moments: Propaganda and the scream

Growing up in the midst of Apartheid South Africa, my childhood was framed by the visible architecture of segregation. I remember the "White Only" signs on the beaches, the segregated train carriages, and even the separate public toilets. I was fortunate enough to attend a multiracial private school, but the world outside was strictly partitioned.

One afternoon, I spotted a piece of graffiti on a wall while riding the train. I went home and asked my father a question that was, at the time, heavy with unspoken weight: "Who is Mandela?" Even as a young child, I felt a growing sense that the reality I was being shown was fundamentally wrong.

This feeling was crystallized every morning at the breakfast table. At 7:00 AM, the radio would air "This Morning’s Comment." It was always delivered in an ultra-serious, officious tone—the mouthpiece of the government using every rhetorical trick and current event to legitimize the Apartheid system. It was pure, unadulterated propaganda.

But the moment that segment ended, the airwaves were pierced by a sudden, ridiculous scream: "CHICKEN MAN!!!"

It was a silly, off-the-wall program that followed the heavy propaganda with absolute nonsense. To be honest, as a kid, I found them both irritating in their own way. But as I sat there with my cereal, the contrast struck me as something profound.

I began to see "The Chicken Man" as a wonderful, perhaps accidental, metaphor. It was as if the universe—or someone clever in the radio planning department—was saying that everything that had come before was complete and utter ridiculous bullshit. The shrill absurdity of the chicken was the only honest response to the officious lies of the state.

Memorable moments: The Goddess of Eight Bells

When I was young, our family holidays were spent at a farm retreat called Eight Bells, several hours from Cape Town. For me, the entire trip revolved around one thing: the horses.

I wasn't an experienced rider, but I made up for it with sheer, unbridled passion. The routine was always the same—we would walk the horses slowly up the paddock, then turn around for the ride back. That was the highlight, when the horses would pick up the pace into a trot or, if we were lucky, a gentle canter.

I was usually assigned the "mellow" mares, the ones with sweet, nursery-rhyme names like Tinkerbell and Buttercup. They were patient, steady, and—in my memory at least—pure white. I felt like a king on their backs, even if we were mostly just following the trail.

But then there was the farmer’s daughter.

She was eleven to my nine, and she inhabited a completely different world. While I was bobbing along on Buttercup, she was mounted on the stallions—beasts with names like Storm and Fury, as black as mine were white. She didn't walk or trot; she galloped.

I can still see her vividly: charging across the paddock with immense, effortless confidence, her long blonde hair flowing behind her like a banner. She was magnificent. To a nine-year-old boy on a horse named Tinkerbell, she wasn't just a neighbor or a fellow rider; she was a force of nature. I watched her from the back of my slow-moving mare, completely enthralled by the speed, the power, and the sheer "otherness" of a girl who could tame a horse called Fury.

She belonged to the wind and the open field. I belonged to the track and the steady rhythm of hooves. And somewhere between Buttercup and Fury, between walking and flying, a small boy first felt the pull of a bigger, wilder world.

Memorable moments: The sooty shins

When I was seven years old, I underwent surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The recovery required me to have both legs encased in plaster of Paris from my toes to my knees for six long weeks.

At the start, I loved it. My legs became a living canvas as friends and family covered the white plaster in doodles and signatures. I can still understand the appeal of tattoos based on that early experience of wearing my social circle on my shins.

However, the novelty eventually wore off, replaced by a relentless, agonizing itch deep inside the casts. In our family home in Medway, we had a beautiful fireplace complete with a set of copper tools. Desperate for relief, I discovered that the long, slender fire poker was the perfect tool for the job. I would slide the cold metal down the top of the cast to reach those impossible spots. It was heaven, providing the only real relief I could find.

Finally, the day arrived to have the casts removed. The doctor brought out a specialized cutter and began the process of vibrantly buzzing through the layers of plaster. As the shells fell away, he suddenly recoiled in genuine horror.

My shins were stained a deep, mottled black.

For a terrifying second, the doctor was convinced he was looking at a catastrophic, gangrenous infection that had claimed both of my legs under his watch. His relief was palpable—and perhaps a little exasperated—when I explained that I’d simply been scratching myself with the soot-covered fire poker for the last month.

Memorable moments: The almond heist

When I was young, I was quite the pilferer. Looking back, I'm genuinely surprised it didn't lead to a full-blown life of crime. My operations were divided into two distinct categories: the sophisticated, high-stakes heist and the reckless, sugary smash-and-grab.

The flaked almonds were my "Ocean’s Eleven" moment. I would wait until the kitchen was empty, then strike. First, I’d liberate a razor blade from my father’s bathroom cupboard. With the precision of a diamond cutter, I’d slice a microscopic slit into the side of my mother's almond packet, edging out the nuts one by one. I’d then seal the wound with a sliver of cellotape so perfectly that the packet looked untouched. It was a literal heist, and Mum never cottoned on.

My other ventures were significantly less subtle. I had a habit of raiding the freezer for Mum's chocolate, an addiction that once got her so irritated she sent me off on my bike to the local café to buy her a replacement with my own money.

But my undoing was the condensed milk. I would steal the tins, retreat to my room, and indulge in the thick, sugary loot. I was eventually busted when Mum discovered a mountain of discarded, empty tins hidden in the back of my own cupboard. To this day, I can’t remember why I didn’t think to discard the evidence.

In hindsight, my criminal career had a very clear pattern: brilliant entry, catastrophic exit.

The almond job was all finesse—silent, precise, almost artistic. The chocolate raids were impulsive but survivable. But the condensed milk… that was less “heist” and more “crime scene preservation.”

It turns out I wasn’t caught because I lacked intelligence. I was caught because, at some point, it simply stopped occurring to me that crimes should include an escape plan—or, at the very least, a rubbish bin.

Stories about dad: The slow-motion comb

I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.

Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"

After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.

My father was not most people.

We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.

Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.

In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.

I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.

Family stories: The Birkenhead legend

When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.

Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.

The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.

My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.

He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.

I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.

Memorable moments: The falling forward pace

I have always loved to walk. Whether it’s a rugged trek through the wilderness or a long, exhilarating urban hike through the city, walking is my primary mode of engagement with the world. However, I often hear a familiar refrain from my companions: "Graeme, you walk so fast! I can't keep up."

The reason for my unrelenting pace can be traced back to my childhood and a man who, at least to my young eyes, seemed ancient and quite a slow mover. That was, until he started walking.

My Grandpa lived about five kilometers from our house in a flat by the Rondebosch station. He would regularly make the trip on foot to Bertram Crescent to pick up my sister, Jo, and me. He’d then walk us through the park back to his place.

Gramps had a very specific, slightly ungainly gait. It was a "falling forward" style of movement—a rhythmic, high-speed stumble that he somehow converted into pure velocity. As soon as he set off, he would fly. Jo and I would practically have to jog at his heels just to stay in his orbit. This pace was even more pronounced during our regular excursions to Muizenberg Beach. We would fly along the sand in that same desperate, joyful pursuit, my small legs working double-time to match his momentum.

I loved the challenge of it. But more than that, I loved the reward.

The absolute highlight of these expeditions was the Appletiser. My mum would always pack one in my bag for the journey. In the hierarchy of childhood treats, Appletiser was the "champagne of apple juices." Its sophisticated fizz made it my favorite drink in the world, a luxury reserved only for the most special occasions.

Sitting there, catching my breath and sipping that fizzy gold after a high-speed trek with Gramps, is one of my most vivid memories.

I realize now that my "fast-walking" isn't just a physical habit; it’s a piece of Lambert that I still carry with me. Every time I outpace a fellow hiker or fly through a city street, I’m back on that beach or in that park, an Appletiser waiting in my bag, forever trying to keep up with the man who taught me that the best way to move through the world is to fall forward into it with everything you've got.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.

Memorable moments: The day the lightbulb went on

As a kid, I made a life-changing discovery: I could scale the great tree in our garden. I was obsessed. For a solid week, I spent every spare hour perched in the branches, a miniature king surveying the world below from my secret leafy fortress.

Then came the day I returned from school to a scene of devastation.

The tree was gone. My father stood there with a chainsaw, and my kingdom lay in a million splintered pieces. I was heartbroken. For years, I nursed a quiet, righteous "peevement" against him for destroying my favorite sanctuary without so much as a warning.

Then, I hit a certain age.

I looked back at the layout of the old garden and realized exactly where that tree had been located: directly level with my parents' bedroom window.

Suddenly, my father’s urgency with the power tools made perfect sense. Every married couple deserves their privacy—and no father wants his son accidentally becoming the world’s most innocent voyeur.

Postscript

I recently shared this story with my mother, expecting a laugh over my belated realization. Instead, she looked at me with total confusion.

"Graeme," she said, "there was never a tree outside our bedroom window. Dad chopped a tree down at the back of the house, not the front."

I told her I was worried about her memory, but she was adamant. "My memory is not what it used to be, but I'm pretty sure. Check with Jo."

I did. My sister’s response was a second, even more violent "chainsaw" to my childhood kingdom: "No, there was never a tree there."

I was absolutely shocked. I can remember that tree so vividly—the texture of the bark, the specific branches I gripped, even the caterpillars I used to watch crawling along the leaves. I had carried that tree with me for decades, using it to define my childhood sense of adventure and my father’s "ruthlessness." To find out it never existed is a staggering realization. It suggests that our personal history is less of a documentary and more of a convincing fiction. If the very foundations of who we think we are are built on memories that can vanish into thin air, it makes you wonder what else we’ve perfectly imagined.

Pure nostalgia: Playing table tennis as a kid

Oh how I loved table tennis!  Gramps took out English lottery tickets for Jo and I and one day, I won £ 200.  There was no question how to spend the money.  We promptly got a wonderful table tennis table that allowed one to raise the one side up so you could play against yourself.  We put the table in the outside room and I spent many happy hours playing myself and others.  To this day, I still play table tennis whenever I get the opportunity.