Memorable moments: The Cradle Mountain cookbook

In 2015, I went on a road trip to Tasmania with a group of friends. It was a trip defined by incredible landscapes and some of the best hiking in the country, but the moment that stuck with me most happened far away from the trailheads.

We had stopped off at the Cradle Mountain gift shop, browsing through the usual souvenirs, when I stumbled upon a book that stopped me in my tracks. It was a cookbook entirely dedicated to the culinary preparation of fresh "road krill."

Tasmania is famous for its abundant wildlife, but that also means a tragic number of marsupials end up as casualties on the road. This book took that reality to its most extreme, "redneck" conclusion. It featured full-color recipes for dishes that sounded like they belonged in a dark-comedy fever dream: Wombat Soufflé and Roast Rack of Kangaroo.

But the detail that truly killed me was the suggestion for presentation. The author recommended that, for the ultimate local touch, one should use echidna quills as kebab spikes.

Whether the book was a genuine guide to bush survival or a brilliant piece of performance art designed to mess with tourists, I couldn't say. But as I stood there in the shadow of one of Australia's most beautiful mountains, looking at a recipe for a marsupial soufflé, I realized that Tasmania doesn't just embrace its "out-there" reputation—it marinades it and serves it on a spike.

Memorable moments: Love, sweet love, and a little squirt of soap

I live right next to Brennan Park in Waverton, which is a beautiful stretch of green, but its true crowning glory isn’t the trees or the harbor views—it’s the toilet.

When friends from overseas visit, I don’t just take them to the Opera House; I take them on a formal tour of the public amenities. It is a masterclass in automated hospitality. You walk in, and the door glides shut with a soft, futuristic click. Then, a warm, friendly voice fills the small space: "Welcome and enjoy your experience here!"

Before you can even process the invitation to "enjoy" a public restroom, the soundtrack begins. It doesn't just play elevator music; it plays the classics, including the theme of "What the World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love." There you are, in a public park in Sydney, experiencing a moment of profound, melodic encouragement in the most unlikely of settings.

When the "experience" is complete, the voice returns with a gentle reminder: "Thank you for using me. Please wash your hands." It then punctuates the request by dispensing a perfect, polite little squirt of soap.

I love Brennan Park, but I love that toilet even more. It is a rare and wonderful thing to find a piece of technology that seems genuinely invested in your well-being. In a world that can often feel cold and mechanical, this little booth stands as a beacon of programmed sincerity—offering music, hygiene, and a small, automated reminder that what the world really needs is a little more care and a clean set of hands.

Memorable moments: The longest wait

A friend of mine once shared a story from a solo trip to Thailand that serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of travel-induced optimism. He had gone for a massage and, finding the masseuse quite attractive, soon found himself in a state of unmistakable physical arousal.

The woman looked down, looked back at him, and asked a direct, three-word question: "You want wank?"

Being single and on holiday in a far-flung land, he didn't take long to weigh his options. He figured, “Why not? I’m miles from home, I’m unattached—let's go with the flow.” He gave her a nod of consent.

She smiled and immediately left the room. My friend lay there, his heart racing with anticipation, assuming she had gone to fetch some oil or perhaps to prepare for the "service."

She was gone for a surprisingly long time. He waited in the quiet room, his expectations mounting with every passing minute of the silence. Finally, after a significant delay, the door opened and she stepped back inside. She looked at him with a pleasant, professional curiosity and asked:

"You have good wank?"

It turned out she wasn't offering her services; she was simply offering him the room for a bit of "private time" while she went off to have a tea break. He had spent ten minutes in a state of high-alert romantic anticipation, while she had simply been waiting for him to finish the job himself.

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.

Memorable moments: The velocity gap

I love tennis and have played on and off my entire adult life. If I have a "claim to fame" on the court, it’s the staggering, almost comical difference in speed between my first and second serves. My first serve was always incredibly hard—a raw, high-velocity strike. My second serve, by contrast, was a gentle "putt" over the net, the kind of shot you’d expect from a 90-year-old grandmother on a Zimmer frame.

During my time in the UK, I attended a professional tennis coaching camp. They used a speed-tracking machine to monitor our serves and provide data-driven advice. When it was my turn to step up to the line, I unleashed my first serve with everything I had.

The coaches were stunned. They checked the monitor and told me, with no small amount of awe, that it was the hardest serve they had measured in five years. I stood there, glowing with pride, basking in the glory of being the camp’s unofficial speed king.

Then came the "but."

"Graeme," they continued, looking at the rest of the data, "your percentage of serves actually landing in the court is the lowest we have ever recorded. Our professional advice to you is to stop using that serve entirely. Just use the granny serve."

I had achieved the pinnacle of power, only to be told that my record-breaking thunderbolt was statistically less useful than a Zimmer-frame lob. It was a humbling lesson in the difference between "impressive" and "effective"—and a reminder that in tennis, as in life, it doesn't matter how fast you're going if you aren't actually on the map.

The glow of Paradise Island

In 1996, Ally and I flew to Mozambique for a romantic getaway on the legendary Paradise Island. The hotel had been the height of opulence in the 1960s, but decades of civil war had left it in a state of beautiful decay. It was in the early stages of a renovation and, in the meantime, was offering a "rustic experience" at a price we couldn't resist.

The island was every bit the postcard: leaning coconut trees, brilliant azure water, and sand the color of gold. The hotel was equally atmospheric. When we arrived in our room, we found an assortment of candles left on the table by the friendly staff. We embraced the mood immediately, spending our evenings in the soft, flickering amber light, feeling like castaways in a more elegant era.

We spent an idyllic week lazing on the beach and chilling out by candlelight. We didn't even miss the hum of a bar fridge; the primitive, unplugged island life was exactly what we needed.

On our final morning, as we were lugging our bags toward the door to catch our flight, I happened to shoulder-nudge the old, peeled-away plastic switch on the wall.

Voila! The room was suddenly flooded with electric light.

We stood there, blinking like owls in the unexpected light, and burst into laughter. The modern world had been standing right there in the corner the entire time, waiting patiently for a single flick of a finger. We had spent the entire holiday in a 19th-century fantasy purely by accident. We didn't mind—the candles had provided a romance the local power grid never could have matched—but it was a hilarious reminder of how easily we inhabit the "reality" we think we've been given.

Memorable moments: The Wit Els hopping hazard

In 2006, I returned to Cape Town for the Wit Els hike with Ally, Russell, and our friend Mike. It was a formidable four-day undertaking: a steep mountain climb followed by a descent into a deep canyon for days of relentless boulder hopping along the river.

Just before we set off, Mike met two pretty Belgian backpackers. Smitten, he impulsively invited them along. We began the ascent, finally reaching the summit in the pitch black—only to discover that the top of the mountain was engulfed in a raging wildfire. It was terrifying, but we managed to reach "The Hoar Hut," which fortunately sat within a protective firebreak. We spent the night huddled inside while the world outside turned into a furnace.

The next morning, we descended into the steep canyon to begin the boulder hopping. It was here that Mike’s romantic gesture collided with cold, hard reality: the Belgian girls were catastrophically bad at it. They had zero balance and were incredibly cautious. Every hop was a twenty-minute negotiation.

By day three, we had only covered a third of the river. The "four-day" hike was looking more like a fortnight. With our supplies and patience dwindling, we were forced to take the only emergency exit on the river—a brutal, punishing climb back out over another mountain.

It was a stark lesson in the logistics of attraction: when inviting strangers on a boulder-hopping hike, always ensure they actually know how to hop.

Memorable moments: The literal holiday

When I was an English teacher in Sydney, I taught young adults at a local college. Every lesson began with a high-stakes ritual: marking the attendance roster. For these students, those checkmarks weren't just about grades; they were the lifeline for their visas. If they weren't in their seats, their right to stay in Australia was at risk.

Because the subject matter could sometimes be dry, I prided myself on making my lessons as inventive and creative as possible. I wanted to pull them out of their textbooks and into the world.

One day, I launched into a particularly ambitious speaking exercise. "All right, everyone," I announced with a flourish, "let’s pretend you have all won a wonderful prize: an all-expenses-paid week-long holiday to anywhere in Australia! In your groups, I want you to discuss where you want to go."

I fanned out a collection of glossy brochures featuring the Great Barrier Reef, the Red Centre, and the rugged coastlines of Tasmania. "Get those creative juices flowing!"

The room buzzed with excitement—except for one girl. She sat perfectly still, looking deeply concerned. As I moved around the classroom, monitoring the "trips" being planned, I passed her desk. She leaned in and whispered urgently, "Teacher, when we go on this trip for a week, will we still get marked off on the attendance roster?"

I stopped in my tracks. I realized in that moment that she hadn't seen the brochures as a prompt for a fantasy; she had seen them as a travel itinerary. To her, this wasn't an exercise in speaking—it was a looming logistical crisis.

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 bottom drawer betrayal

My neighbor Helen was undeniably sexy, and for weeks, there had been a undeniable spark between us—a series of subtle flirtations that seemed to be building toward a predictable conclusion. When she finally invited me over for dinner, the atmosphere was already charged.

After a couple of drinks, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I found a large, artistic nude photograph of her staring back at me. It was the ultimate mood-setter. I walked back into the lounge feeling more animated than ever, the "signal" loud and clear.

The tension peaked when Helen looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Come to my bedroom," she whispered. "Let’s be naughty together."

Bingo.

We retreated to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. I was mentally preparing to go in for the definitive kiss, my heart hammering with anticipation. But just as I leaned in, Helen pivoted away. She reached down and slid open her bottom bedside drawer.

Instead of a romantic gesture, she produced a very large, expertly rolled spliff.

"Hope you don't mind us doing this here," she said casually, as the first cloud of smoke began to drift toward the ceiling. "People can see us from the lounge window, so it’s much more private in here."

The disappointment was absolute—a crushing, silent landslide. The "naughty" behavior she had promised wasn't a passionate encounter; it was simply a clandestine smoke in a room with better curtains. We spent the rest of the evening on a mellow, hazy high, chatting comfortably as the romantic spark evaporated into the air.

Memorable moments: The epic spray

I have always struggled with seasickness. Over the years, two specific voyages have etched themselves into my memory—not for the scenery, but for the sheer, green-tinged misery of the experience.

The first was on my eighteenth birthday in Mauritius. To celebrate the milestone, our family chartered a yacht for a cruise. It was a choppy, restless day, and as the boat pitched, my stomach began its own rhythmic descent into darkness. I reached a point of such profound nausea that I actually had fantasies of diving overboard just to end the motion. I desperately wanted to be sick, hoping for that legendary moment of relief, but my body refused to cooperate.

I was sitting doubled over, staring at the deck in a state of absolute "suffer-fest," when a well-meaning hand thrust a large plate directly under my nose. It was piled high with pungent tuna sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. That was the breaking point. The smell was the final sensory assault I couldn't survive. I scrambled for the back of the ship and delivered an epic, birthday-defining spray into the Indian Ocean.

Ten years later, I found myself on a ferry from Israel to Egypt. The Mediterranean was in a foul mood, and the ship was tossing violently. This time, I wasn't alone in my suffering; the entire deck was a gallery of green faces. I retreated to the stern to reenact my eighteenth birthday, joining a line of fellow passengers who were all projectile vomiting over the railing.

What sticks in my mind most vividly, however, isn't the sickness—it’s the gulls. An entire flock of them hovered in our wake, shrieking with delight. They weren't just following us; they were diving into the sea to feast on our collective misery. It was a sobering reminder of the natural order: while we were experiencing the lowest point of our human existence, the seagulls were having the best lunch of their lives.

Memorable moments: The $1 heartbreak

I have always loved a good shower, but two specific experiences stand out in my memory—one representing the pinnacle of human pleasure, the other a descent into cold, shivering despair.

In 2001, I tackled the Annapurna circuit in Nepal. It was a three-week trek through the staggering beauty of the Himalayas, but it came with a catch: for the first two weeks, there were no showers to be found. By the time we arrived in a small mountain town that offered hot water, I was more trail-dust than man.

That shower was the closest thing to religious bliss I have ever experienced. I didn't just stand there; I sat on the floor and rocked to and fro in utter ecstasy as the hot water hammered down on me. In that steaming cubicle, I made a silent, solemn vow to the universe: I will never take a hot shower for granted again.

Fourteen years later, the universe decided to test that vow.

I was hiking with friends near Lake St. Clair in Tasmania. It had been a long, miserable day of trekking through relentless rain. I was soaked to the bone and shivering with a deep, internal cold. When we finally made it back to the campsite, the sight of a shower block felt like a hallucination of salvation.

I hurried inside, fumbled out of my sodden clothes, and stood naked in the cubicle, trembling with anticipation. I reached for the handle, ready for that Himalayan heat—and saw the sign that broke my heart: INSERT $1 FOR HOT WATER.

Chuntering under my breath, I frantically searched my discarded clothes. I found notes. I found 50-cent pieces. I even found a $2 coin. But the elusive $1 gold coin was nowhere to be found.

There is a specific kind of fury that comes from standing naked and freezing in front of a machine that demands exactly what you don't have. Swearing at the injustice of it all, I had to pull my wet, cold clothes back onto my shivering body and head back out into the rain in search of a dollar.

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 final word from Hermanus

My mother never quite saw eye-to-eye with her in-laws. She was English, they were South African, and in their eyes, no woman on earth was ever going to be "good enough" for their beloved son. Mum spent years feeling judged and under the microscopic lens of their constant, silent criticism. While my sister and I doted on our grandparents and looked forward to their Sunday visits, Mum spent those afternoons in a state of high-alert irritability.

Eventually, they passed away at a ripe old age. As a final tribute, Mum and Dad drove to Hermanus—the seaside town my grandparents had loved—to sprinkle their mixed ashes from a scenic cliff into the ocean.

It was meant to be a moment of closure. Mum took a cup of the remains and cast them out toward the water. But at that exact moment, the Cape wind whipped up in a sudden, mischievous gust. Instead of drifting gracefully to the sea, the ashes blew straight back, coating Mum’s face in a fine, grey mist of her late in-laws.

"Good God," Mum sputtered, wiping her face in disbelief. "They're having a go at me even in death!"

A couple of years ago, I asked mum if she believed in life after death. She didn't hesitate for a second. "I hope not," she remarked dryly. "That would probably mean I’d have to see my in-laws again."

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 cobbled vibration

When I lived in London, I took up rollerblading, and it was pure, unadulterated exhilaration. Every weekend, I would skate from Hammersmith through the city streets to Hyde Park for a game of touch rugby. Gliding over the smooth tarmac, weaving through the urban landscape, I felt a sense of total freedom—a modern-day centaur on wheels.

Then, I moved to Cambridge.

I arrived with the same skates and the same excitement, eager to explore the historic city on eight wheels. However, I quickly discovered a fundamental design flaw in my plan: Cambridge was built in the 14th century, and its architects had absolutely no foresight regarding polyurethane wheels.

The city is a labyrinth of ancient, beautiful, and utterly merciless cobblestones.

Rollerblades, as it turns out, do not come equipped with shock absorbers. The moment I hit those historic stones, the "exhilarating freedom" was replaced by a bone-shaking, teeth-rattling vibration that threatened to liquify my internal organs. It wasn't a glide; it was a full-body seismic event. Every joint in my body felt the protest of six hundred years of masonry.

My dreams of skating through the university grounds were quickly curtailed. I was forced to abandon the historic center and confine my skating to a small, humble patch of modern tarmac near my house. It was a stark lesson in historical compatibility: you can’t bring 21st-century momentum to a 14th-century surface without paying for it in every bone of your body.

Memorable moments: The Matric marathon

In South Africa, the Matric Dance is the undisputed peak of the school social calendar. It’s a night of high-stakes glamour, tuxedos, and floor-length gowns. I went with a childhood friend, Wendy, but my close friend Tony was in a bit of a bind. Tony was the academic titan of our year—frighteningly intelligent and always top of the class—but he was a bit of a nerd and lacked the social "processing power" to find a date.

Feeling for him, I offered up my sister, Jo. She was gorgeous, lovely, and possessed a non-judgmental patience that I knew would be the perfect safety net for Tony.

The night began perfectly. We all looked the part in our formal gear, the atmosphere was electric, and the girls looked spectacular. Then, the music started, and the "disaster" began to unfold on the dance floor.

Tony, whom I had never seen move faster than a brisk walk toward a library, didn’t so much find the rhythm as he did a pace. Being tall and gangly, he didn't sway or step. He jogged. He began to lunge up and down on the spot with giant, athletic strides—arms pumping and legs churning with the mechanical efficiency of a cross-country runner.

Poor Jo was dutifully in tow, trying to maintain some semblance of a dance while Tony treated the disco lights like a finish line. After about an hour of this high-intensity cardio, Jo and I managed a quick sidebar. She was breathless but smiling, her legendary patience still intact.

"My God," she whispered, "he must have clocked up at least ten kilometers by now!"

It was a classic "Tony" moment. He had approached the dance floor with the same relentless focus he applied to his exams, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in the room treating a slow ballad like a qualifying heat for the Olympics.

Memorable moments: The invisible procession

In her later years, Gran’s driving slowed to a pace that could generously be described as “contemplative.”

One Saturday morning we were making our way along Claremont Main Road—normally a chaotic, bumper-to-bumper affair. Shops buzzing, taxis darting, people everywhere. Except, according to Gran, it wasn’t.

She peered out over the steering wheel and said, with genuine wonder, “Gosh… the road is almost empty. I wonder where all the cars are.”

I had a quiet look in the rearview mirror.

“They’re not lost, Gran,” I thought. “They’ve just… formed a respectful procession behind you.”

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: Standing on edge

During my university years, I lived in constant awe of my housemate, Oliver. He was studying Business Science Finance—a notoriously grueling course that demanded mathematical precision and endless hours of focus—yet he navigated it with what seemed like the absolute minimum amount of effort. Oliver didn't just leave his studying to the last minute; he seemed to leave it entirely to chance.

I remember one night in particular when he was trying to decide how to spend his evening. He pulled out a coin and announced his strategy:

"If it’s heads, I go to the movies. If it’s tails, I go to bed. If it stands on its edge, I study."

I watched him live life to the full, seemingly unburdened by the academic pressures that kept me awake at night. Despite this breathtakingly relaxed approach to one of the hardest degrees at UCT, he graduated and immediately landed a prestigious job at Morgan Stanley. He was simply one of those people—blessed with the kind of innate talent that meant he never actually had to see that coin stand on its edge.