Memorable moments: Automated aggression

During my time at Volvo in Duxford, I made frequent business trips to the corporate heartland of Gothenburg. I usually stayed at the Radisson, a hotel that catered to the brisk, efficient schedules of visiting executives. Because our meetings often started at the crack of dawn, I relied heavily on the hotel’s wake-up call service.

It was a standard, automated system: you’d speak your requested time into the phone, and the next morning, a computerized voice would chime, "This is your wake-up call." It was cold, functional, and perfectly Swedish.

One morning, after a particularly early set-up and a night of restless, fragmented sleep, the phone rang at 5:00 AM. I was in a foul mood—irritable, exhausted, and ready to lash out at the inanimate technology that was dragging me into the light.

I snatched up the receiver and, before the "machine" could even get a word out, I snarled into the mouthpiece: "Fuck off!!"

There was a long, horrifying silence. Then, instead of the expected robotic tone, a very small, very shocked female voice whispered back:

"Oh... I am so sorry, sir. I hope I didn't get your wake-up call wrong!"

I felt the blood drain from my face as I sat bolt upright in the dark. It turned out the automated system had gone on the blink overnight, and the front desk staff were manually calling every room to ensure the guests weren't late.

I spent the next several minutes in a state of profuse, stuttering apology, trying to explain that I wasn't actually a monster—just a man who had mistakenly declared war on a computer.

Memorable moments: 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.

Memorable moments: The vowels of doom

During my time at Volvo’s UK headquarters in Duxford, I was part of a high-pressure team tasked with redesigning the global corporate website. One morning, in our hushed, open-plan office, I prepared to pull up the live site at volvo.com for a quick reference check. My fingers flew across the keys, but just as I hit "Enter," a phone call distracted me.

I looked away to answer, leaving the page to load in full view of the room. A few seconds later, my colleague Andre Pocock leaned over, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"My goodness, Graeme," he hissed, "what on earth are you looking at?"

I turned back to my screen and felt a jolt of pure, corporate-grade horror. Instead of the safe, Swedish lines of a family station wagon, I was staring at a giant, high-definition, and very explicit anatomical image. 

In my distracted state, my fingers had betrayed me. I hadn't typed the home of the "Iron Mark"; I had swapped the two vowels in volvo with other letters and navigated directly to a site that was much more "biological" than "automotive."

The contrast between Volvo’s brand values and the screen in front of me was absolute. I managed to kill the window before the rest of the department could wander over, but for the rest of my tenure, I never hit the "Enter" key again without the realization that you can't navigate life—or the internet—without a great deal of care.

Memorable moments: The adult Santa

On a visit back to Cape Town, Ally and I were invited to the annual Christmas party of the "Hardcore Hiking Group," a tribe of adventurers we’d belonged to for years. Usually, our friend James—a naturally funny guy—played the role of Santa. But this year, James couldn't make it. As the visiting guest, I was bestowed with the great privilege of the red suit.

I donned the beard, padded the stomach, and made my grand entrance. I decided to channel the boisterous, floor-shaking energy of my grandfather, but as I stepped into the room, something shifted. I let out a deep, booming, guttural roar that echoed off the walls:

"HO! HO! HO! WHO’S BEEN GOOD AND WHO’S BEEN BAD THIS YEAR?!"

It was, in retrospect, terrifying. Instead of a "jolly old elf," I sounded like a vengeful mountain deity who had come to settle a debt. My "heartiness" was so intense it felt like a physical threat. A wave of pure, unadulterated horror swept through the room. Several toddlers immediately burst into tears, while others dove for cover behind their parents' legs, convinced that this massive, shouting red man was there to take them away. It was a demographic disaster.

However, when the sun went down and the "Adult Santa" session began, my frightening intensity finally found its proper audience. The hikers, fueled by Christmas spirit, were a much more receptive crowd for my brand of storytelling. The darker the innuendo, the louder the laughs.

"I know you’ve been bad," I told one regular hiker, "so let’s dispense with the small talk, little lady."

I leaned into the role with gusto, fielding requests with lines like:

• "Wanna come with me on the sleigh and join the mile-high club?"
• "Control yourself, dear—I don't want water on my knee."
• "I’m lonely up at the North Pole. To be honest, I need someone really bad. Are you really bad?"
• "Sorry I’m late... I got my sack caught in the chimney."
• "How many chimneys did I go down today? Stacks!"

By the time the night was over, the room was in hysterics. I realized then that while I might be a nightmare-inducing prospect for a four-year-old, I make an excellent Santa for the over-eighteen crowd.

Original post of the event

Memorable moments: The pearly white buttocks

In 2005, Ally and I flew from the gray skies of London to Croatia for a short break, desperate for some Mediterranean sun and the famous crystal-blue water. We checked into our hotel, dropped our bags, and immediately headed for the balcony to soak in the "gorgeous" view.

The view, however, was not quite what the brochure had promised.

As we looked out, an enormous, very white man walked past directly below us, speaking loudly in German. He was entirely, unapologetically nude. A moment later, several more naked people strolled by. It turned out our hotel didn't just have a sea view; it looked directly onto a nudist beach. We soon discovered that nudity is a massive part of Croatian culture—in some areas, there are more nudist beaches than "textile" ones.

True to the "When in Rome" spirit, we decided to embrace the local customs. We spent our days lapping up the sun; Ally went topless, and I went entirely nude. Ally even took a few cheeky photos of me standing on the shore, proudly showing off my pearly white buttocks against the Adriatic blue.

When we got back to London, I was eager to share the trip with my family. This was in the era before social media, so I sat down late one night to email a selection of photos to my mum in Cape Town.

The next day, I received a reply: "Lovely photos, Graeme, but that last one is rather porno!"

In my late-night exhaustion, I had completely forgotten the golden rule of travel photography: always curate your "mother-friendly" folder before hitting send. I had inadvertently sent my mother a high-resolution portrait of her son’s Croatian "full moon."

Memorable moments: The vulture and the rookie

During my final years of school, I developed a consuming passion for bird watching. It was ignited by my close friend Tony Verboom, an expert birder who introduced me to the gritty reality of the craft. We spent our mornings at Rietvlei, crawling on our bellies through knee-deep mud, getting thoroughly filthy in pursuit of "lesser-spotted thing-a-me-bobs." I loved every second of it—especially the moment a magnificent Osprey banked over our heads, sealing my fate as a "twitcher."

From then on, I lived and breathed birds, cycling to local wetlands every weekend to increase my "life list."

Shortly after I started, while I was still very much a novice, Tony and I spotted a large bird drifting in the distant Cape sky. Tony gasped in genuine shock. "My God, it’s a Cape Vulture!" He was ecstatic; Cape Vultures hadn't been recorded in the Peninsula for sixty years. Tony was so convinced that he wrote a formal report for the Cape Bird Club newsletter.

When the article was published, I saw my name in print for the first time: Verified by Tony Verboom and fellow spotter, Graeme Myburgh. I felt a wave of hot embarrassment. I was a beginner; I just hoped the veteran birders wouldn't realize that my "verification" carried about as much weight as a sparrow’s feather. I lived in fear of blowing Tony’s credibility.

The moment of truth came during a Bird Club weekend trip to Swellendam. Tony couldn't make it, so I carpooled with the Chairman of the club, a friendly, high-level expert named Jan. As we drove, Jan mentioned the newsletter. "Extraordinary sighting, that vulture," he said. I nodded, trying to look like a man who knew his raptors.

I was obsessed with seeing a Black Harrier on that trip. I had them on the brain. Suddenly, I saw a large, black-and-white shape perched on a power line.

"Oh my God, stop!" I cried. "Black Harrier!"

Jan slammed on the brakes. The car screeched to a halt, dust billowing around us. He leaned out, binoculars raised, squinting at the bird. He looked confused, then slowly turned to me.

"Graeme," he said gently, "that’s a Pied Crow."

It was one of the most common birds in the Western Cape. Even a rank amateur knows a crow from a harrier, but my wishful thinking had performed a mid-air transformation. I sat there in the settling dust, mortified. I was certain I had just blown the credibility of Tony’s legendary vulture sighting to smithereens in a single, caffeinated outburst.

Thankfully, Jan was a man of immense patience and quiet grace. He didn't mock me or question the vulture article; he simply shifted back into gear and drove on. We had a marvelous weekend of birding, and while the Black Harrier never made an appearance, I learned a vital lesson: in the bush, as in life, you have to see what’s actually there, not just what you’re desperate to find.

Memorable moments: The sexy beast of Old Mutual

One morning, I walked through the Old Mutual marketing floor on the way to my desk, sensing a shift in the atmospheric pressure. As I moved past the cubicles, I noticed a series of amused, knowing smiles from colleagues, as if the entire floor was in on a secret I hadn't been invited to.

I wondered if I was imagining things until I passed David from Agency Marketing. He gave me a supportive nod and a wink.

"You go, stud," he chirped. "We're all rooting for you."

I reached my desk, confused and increasingly wary. Sitting there, face-up for the world to see, was a thermal-paper fax. It didn't contain a marketing brief or a strategy update. Instead, it was a bold, typed declaration:

"I can't wait to get my hands on you later, you sexy beast."

It was from Ally. In an era before private messaging, she had mistakenly assumed that the office fax machine was a private, direct line to my desk. Instead, it had spent the morning sitting in the communal tray, being enjoyed by every "gregarious" marketer and agency staffer who had wandered by to collect their own documents.

In that single moment, I discovered a profound new psychological state: the ability for immense pride and agonizing embarrassment to coexist in the exact same heartbeat.

I walked in a "high-potential trainee" and left the "Marketing Stud" of the building. It turns out, no matter how hard you work on your professional brand, all it takes is one misplaced fax to permanently rebrand you as a "Sexy Beast."

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 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 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.

Memorable moments: Rot and romance

My neighbor Helen was stunning, and I’ll admit, I was eager to impress. During a conversation over the fence, she mentioned she loved coconuts. Naturally, I claimed to be a lifelong devotee of the fruit myself.

A few days later, she appeared with a gift. "I bought you a coconut!" she chirped. We stood outside her flat as she excitedly bored a hole into the shell, popped in a straw, and handed it to me. She stood back, watching with a look of pure, expectant joy, waiting to witness my tropical bliss.

I took the first sip.

The "cream" was... unique. It tasted distinctly "off," with a metallic, slightly fermented tang that grew more aggressive with every swallow. But Helen looked so happy—so proud of her selection—that I couldn't bring myself to break the spell. I channeled every ounce of my inner composure and drained the entire thing, hiding my mounting nausea behind a polite smile.

"Now," she said, her eyes gleaming, "let’s eat the flesh together!"

She grabbed a nearby stone and cracked it open on the pavement. We both leaned in.

The interior was a horror show. Instead of pristine white meat, the inside was a void of jet-black, fuzzy rot. It looked less like food and more like a biological experiment gone wrong.

Helen recoiled, then turned to me with a look of genuine alarm. "Graeme! It’s putrid! Why on earth didn't you say anything!?"

I just stood there, my stomach currently hosting a small colony of ancient mold, realizing that while I’d set out to be a "smooth" neighbor, I’d actually just become the world’s most polite victim of food poisoning.

Memorable moments: The wailing waterfall

I was on a guided hike to the summit of the Drakensberg. At the very top, a pristine rock pool sat perched right at the lip of a massive waterfall, its water spilling over the edge into the abyss below. It was a scene of rugged beauty—and the perfect stage for some high-altitude bravado.

There was a girl in the group I was particularly keen to impress. I figured a fearless, mid-air leap into that infinity pool would cement my status as the alpha-adventurer of the expedition. I took a breath, channeled my inner action hero, and launched myself off the ledge.

The moment I hit the surface, the laws of thermodynamics struck back. The water wasn't just cold; it was a liquid ice-pick that instantly vacuum-sealed my lungs. Every ounce of "cool" evaporated in a millisecond.

As the current began nudging me toward the edge of the falls, I produced a noise usually reserved for a cat being dunked in an ice bath. I scrambled for the rocks, limbs flailing like a panicked crab, desperate to escape the liquid nitrogen before I became a permanent part of the scenery at the bottom of the mountain.

I went in hoping to look like a mountain god; I left looking like a man who had just been electrocuted by a puddle at three thousand metres.

Memorable moments: The bottle of justice

When I was seven, an operation left both my legs in heavy plaster casts. For six long weeks, I was confined to a wheelchair, which created a logistical problem: I couldn't make it to the school toilets. The solution was a medical bottle kept discretely by my side in class.

However, my teacher quickly found a secondary use for my recovery.

The moment that bottle hit the floor, she would scan the room like a hawk looking for prey. "Patrick, you haven’t done your homework," she’d bark. Or, "Nicky, stop talking!"

Then came the sentence: "Go to the toilet and empty the bottle!"

I would sit there in my casts as the "guilty" student trudged over, shot me a look of pure resentment, and marched my personal business down the hallway. I wasn't just a classmate anymore; I was a living, breathing punishment.

I went into that surgery hoping for a quick recovery; I left as the most effective deterrent in the history of primary education.

Memorable moments: The dentist's son

When I was six years old, I lived in constant fear of Mrs. Ford. She was a loud, formidable woman who taught the older children and was known for a lethal ear-pinch. So, when she burst into my classroom and barked, "I want Myburgh!" my life flashed before my eyes.

She grabbed my arm and marched me down the corridor. I was terrified. I ran through every possible sin I could have committed, bracing for the inevitable pinch.

Instead, she hauled me to the front of her class. Eighty older students stared as I studied my shoes in silent agony. Then came the command:

"Myburgh, open your mouth and show them your teeth!"

I obeyed. What else could I do?

"Students," she bellowed, "look at these teeth! These are the teeth of a dentist’s son. Look how they sparkle and shine! You, too, can have teeth like this if you look after them."

She dismissed me with a brisk "Thank you," and I bolted. I ran all the way back to my class, desperately wishing my father had a more discreet profession—like an engineer, a businessman, or a fireman.

I went in expecting a reprimand; I left as a human toothpaste commercial.

Memorable moments: The transcontinental commute

After six years in the UK, my brain was still commuting on the Northern Line while my body was standing at a station in Sydney.

I walked up to the window, weary from work, and asked for a ticket to North London.

The ticket-master froze. He looked at me, then his screen, then back at me with genuine concern. Finally, the penny dropped.

"You mean North Sydney, don’t you?"

"Ah," I stammered, my face turning a vibrant shade of commuter-red. "Yes. That would help."

He didn't miss a beat. As he printed the ticket, he leaned in with a grin.

"And will that be a window or an aisle seat for the journey?"

Memorable moments: The ballroom bone-breaker

When I joined the Ballroom Dancing Society at the University of Cape Town, I was the definition of a latecomer. The rest of the class already knew their quickstep from their tango, while I was just trying to look like I belonged in the room.

Our teacher, Maureen Shargey—a tiny, high-voltage live wire—announced that today’s menu featured "Rock n’ Roll Throws." She demonstrated a move that involved deep knee bends, a heavy lift, and a series of high-speed rotations.

"Find a partner!" she barked.

There was a stampede. When the dust settled, I was left standing with the only other person without a pair: a girl who was a solid six feet tall, big-boned, and built like a professional rugby lock. I looked at her, then at my own knees, and began a silent, frantic mantra: Bend at the knees. Bend at the knees.

Maureen gave the signal. I dove in, bent deep, and—to my absolute shock—managed a heroic lift. I swung her down toward my left leg.

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot in the hall. My leg went instantly numb. Oh God, I thought, I’ve snapped my femur. The bone is going to be sticking out. This is the end.

I dropped my partner, who went sliding across the polished floor like a human curling stone, and collapsed in a heap, clutching my thigh and bracing for the sight of a compound fracture. A worried crowd gathered. Maureen looked on in horror.

I gingerly reached into my pocket to assess the damage to my limb. My fingers found something jagged. I pulled it out and held it up for the room to see.

It wasn't my leg. It was my favorite plastic comb, snapped perfectly in two.

My dignity was in splinters, but at least I could still walk home.

Memorable moments: The nightmare cure

In 2012, I decided to push myself well beyond my comfort zone by attending a Human Awareness Institute workshop—a weekend dedicated to intimacy, openness, and radical honesty. By the second day, the "radical" part truly kicked in: the facilitators invited everyone to shed their clothes and spend the rest of the retreat in the nude.

To my surprise, once the initial shock wore off, it felt remarkably natural. But as the workshop drew to a close, a familiar shadow loomed.

Since I was a child, I’ve had a recurring nightmare. I’m standing on a stage, giving a presentation to a large crowd, when I suddenly realize—to my absolute horror and humiliation—that I am completely naked.

I realized this was my moment. I could either hide in the back or face the beast.

I walked to the front of the room and stood, entirely exposed, before eighty people. I remembered my mother’s old trick for public speaking nerves: "If you’re anxious, just imagine the audience is naked."

I looked out at the room and realized with a grin: I didn't have to imagine.

I shared my story, the shame evaporated, and I walked off that stage a free man. It was the most successful presentation of my life—though I still wouldn’t recommend the dress code for a board meeting at Old Mutual.

Memorable moments: The mile-high monologue

On a long-haul flight from Sydney to Cape Town, I settled in for some spiritual growth. I’d recently bought a book by an author I admire and was tucked into a middle seat, ready to dive deep into the text on my Kindle.

I hit the power button.

Immediately, a loud, authoritative, and terrifyingly clear robotic voice—not unlike the one used by David Hawkins—bellowed from the device:

"THE ENLIGHTENED SEX MANUAL—BY DAVID DEIDA—PAGE FOUR."

Somehow, the text-to-speech mode had been triggered. In the sudden silence of the cabin, it sounded less like a private reading and more like a public service announcement for the entire row.

I fumbled madly, my fingers turning into useless sausages as I clawed at the screen, desperate to kill the power before the "Enlightened" details of page five began broadcasting to my captive neighbors.

I went into that flight looking for spiritual transcendence; I left it wishing for physical disappearance.

Memorable moments: The pocket saboteur

I headed to the Apple Store with my MacBook Pro to solve a nagging technical glitch—the kind that makes you feel like an expert just for booking the appointment. I stood before the "Genius," ready to demonstrate the issue, only to hit a literal wall.

The trackpad was dead. The cursor wouldn't budge. I couldn't even log in.

The Genius was stymied. We tried every reset, every key command, and every diagnostic trick in the book. For twenty minutes, we stared at a frozen screen in a state of high-tech consternation. The mystery was absolute.

Then, my hand brushed against my trousers.

I felt a familiar, rounded bulge in my pocket. A memory flickered: “Oh yes, I brought my Bluetooth Apple Mouse.”

I reached in and pulled it out. Not only was it in my pocket, it was switched on. My thigh had been "clicking" and "scrolling" the entire time, effectively hijacking the computer and locking out the trackpad.

I looked at the mouse. I looked at the Genius. The "problem" was solved, but my dignity was officially beyond repair.