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: 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.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road olympics

During the years Russell and I were housemates at Willow Road, the house became a laboratory for high-stakes, low-budget adrenaline. We didn't need a gym; we had a three-seater couch and a dangerous amount of competitive energy.

Our Couch Jumping competitions were a masterclass in poor risk management. The goal was to clear the entire length of the sofa in a single leap, which required a massive run-up and a violent "emergency brake" landing. We’d stick the landing, panting and triumphant, with our toes skidding just inches away from a literal death plummet off the balcony.

Then there was the day of the Garden Cane Duel.

Dressed in our bathrobes—which felt appropriately "regal" for the sport—we engaged in a ferocious fencing match. We weren't just poking; we were really laying into it. Russell landed several sharp, swishing blows across my shoulders that stung like a swarm of hornets.

Determined to counter, I swung back with a lucky—though profoundly unlucky for him—swish that caught him squarely across the nipple. The resulting yelp of agony was instantaneous. We were doubled over, a mess of terry cloth and bamboo, caught in that strange space between genuine pain and hysterical laughter.

It was at exactly this moment that Russell’s brother, Roger, walked in.

He stood in the doorway, staring in genuine horror at two grown men in bathrobes, armed with sticks, sweating, and clutching their injuries in a living room that looked like a disaster zone.  We tried to explain the "logic" of the match—the rules of the bathrobe-fencing and the strategic importance of the couch-jump—but I think he realized then what we already knew: at Willow Road, if it wasn't slightly dangerous or entirely ridiculous, it wasn't worth doing. 

Memorable moments: The smouldering scalp

By eighteen, I was already losing my hair. My father was entirely bald, and seeing my future reflected in his shiny scalp every day filled me with a quiet, obsessive panic. I was convinced that no woman would ever look twice at a man whose hairline was in such a rapid retreat.

Then Oliver moved in.

He was my age and, remarkably, even balder than I was. But Oliver didn’t look like a man in despair; he was happy, confident, and had a gorgeous girlfriend who clearly adored him. To me, he was a living miracle.

One evening, we had a heart-to-heart. I confessed my anxieties and told him how much I admired his "Zen" attitude toward his reflection. Oliver leaned back and gave me a wry smile.

"It wasn't always this easy," he admitted. "A while back, I was sitting in the back of the car behind my mum and dad. My father’s perfectly bald head was right there in front of me, staring me in the face. I looked at it with such focused, concentrated vehemence that I felt like a human magnifying glass. I honestly expected his scalp to start smouldering right then and there."

The image of Oliver trying to set his father’s head on fire with the sheer power of his "balding-rage" was too much. I started to laugh. Then he started to laugh. Soon, we were both doubled over, gasping for air in one of those rare, soul-cleansing fits of hysteria.

In that moment, the weight of years of obsession simply evaporated. A few months later, I met Ally, and the issue of my hair—or lack thereof—simply ceased to exist.

It turns out the best treatment for male-pattern baldness isn't a lotion or a pill—it's a housemate with a shiny head and a funny story to tell. 

Memorable moments: The remote betrayal

During my university years, my Cape Town housemate Oliver and I shared Willow Road with Andre. To us, Andre was ancient—at least thirty-five—and he spent his post-divorce life cycling through girlfriends with the speed of a professional sprinter. He was determined to be the one doing the dumping, often juggling three oblivious women at once.

Naturally, Oliver (a serial prankster) and I decided it was time to humble him.

Oliver told Andre he’d acquired a "juicy" adult video that had to be seen to be believed. Andre, ever the connoisseur, was immediately intrigued. Oliver started the film, handed Andre the remote, and gave a stern warning: "Don't fast-forward, or you'll miss the best part."

Oliver then "slipped away" to the bathroom, and I retreated to the kitchen to "make coffee."

Right on cue, Oliver’s sister and her friend used a spare key to barge into the lounge. Panic-stricken, Andre hammered the "Stop" button. Nothing happened. He hammered it again. Still nothing. We had, of course, removed the batteries.

In a desperate, last-ditch effort to save his reputation, Andre launched himself over the coffee table like a heat-seeking missile. That is exactly how the girls found him: sprawled on his stomach, frantically stabbing at the TV’s manual buttons, while a symphony of very loud, very explicit "adult antics" played out directly above his head.

Andre may have been a master at juggling girlfriends, but he was no match for a TV that refused to take orders.

Memorable moments: The midnight hero of Willow Road

Life at my house on Willow Road was rarely quiet, but one night, the silence was shattered by a series of high-pitched, blood-curdling female screams.

Convinced a violent crime was unfolding right on our doorstep, my "hero" instincts kicked into overdrive. I bolted from my bed and sprinted down the corridor, fueled by pure adrenaline. I burst through the front door and into the night air, ready to confront the attacker—only to realize two things simultaneously:

First, the "victim" wasn’t being attacked; she was in Andre’s outside room, and she was having a spectacularly good time.

Second, in my rush to save a life, I had completely forgotten to put on any clothes.

I retreated in a state of naked humiliation, but the vocal performance continued in an impressive ebb and flow well into the early morning. I eventually managed to fall asleep, though my "heroic" ego was severely bruised.

The next morning, Andre sauntered into the kitchen with the grin of a man who had won the lottery.

"My god, Graeme," he beamed. "I’ve found the girl for you! We met at a bar and had some great fun last night, but I’m moving on today. I’ll put in a good word; you’ll stand a very good chance."

I looked at him, my midnight sprint still fresh in my mind. "No thanks," I said firmly. "First of all, I don’t want to catch anything. Second, I like to get to know a girl before I shag her. And thirdly... what if she doesn't scream for me?"

I think I’ll stick to saving people who actually want to be rescued—and preferably while wearing trousers.

Memorable moments: The Willow Road welcome

When Oliver moved into my home at Willow Road in Cape Town, I was on high alert. He was a friend’s brother and a notorious prankster, so I knew I had to establish dominance early. I helped him settle in, offered a warm welcome, and retreated to my room with a simple: "Shout if you need anything."

Half an hour later, there was a frantic knock on my door. Oliver looked genuinely shaken. "Oh my God," he stammered, "there is a huge spider in the bathroom!"

I followed him in, bracing myself. I’ve lived in Cape Town a long time, but I have never seen a spider like this. It was massive—easily the size of a small rat—clinging to the wall like it owned the mortgage.

My internal instinct was to scream and move to a different continent, but I managed to keep my face completely deadpan. I looked at the beast, then back at Oliver with a shrug.

"Oh, Oliver," I said casually, "that’s actually a really small one for this house. We tend to leave the little ones be. But look, if you see its daddy, let me know and I’ll help you move it."

The look of pure, unadulterated horror on his face was the greatest housewarming gift I could have asked for.

Memorable moments: The searing truth

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

One handful later, my mouth was an inferno.

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

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

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

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

Sue and Alex's gorgeous little one, Amilie

How cute is she!!  And she just about never cries. The perfect baby. If Sue and Alex could distil the magic formula, they'd be billionaires.