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.

Memorable moments: The evolution of Srini

My close friend Srini is a remarkable man. Raised in Bangalore, India, he began his life as a self-described computer nerd—a coder who spent the majority of his time behind a screen, significantly overweight and largely confined to his room.

Then, out of the blue, a LinkedIn job offer arrived from Australia. It took immense courage, but Srini got up from his desk and flew to a land he didn't know, where he knew absolutely no one.

In an effort to meet people, he joined a hiking group on MeetUp. For his first trek—a long trail in the Royal National Park—he arrived as the ultimate beginner: wearing jeans and carrying his lunch and gear in plastic shopping bags instead of a backpack.

I met him shortly after on another hike and immediately fell for him. He was a beautiful, friendly, and passionate guy, and that passion was quickly transferring to the outdoors. He graduated to a more professional group, tackling challenging, off-track routes. As the weight fell off, a new version of Srini emerged.

He became a master of navigation, leading our little group of friends into remote wilderness areas. He was fearless. He took up climbing, then canyoning—which required swimming through dark, subterranean rivers that never saw the sun. Remarkably, he could hardly swim when he started, but he refused to let that stop him.

Soon, the man who once carried shopping bags was abseiling down massive waterfalls and setting up complex rope systems to keep us all safe. He took up pack rafting, learning to navigate huge rapids with the same precision he once used for code.

Today, Srini is the ultimate mountain man—fit, skilled, and fearless. He has pursued adventures across the Himalayas, New Zealand, and Europe. He is a true inspiration, proving that a person can completely rewrite their own "software" and that passion, once ignited, is the most infectious force in the world.

Family stories: Toucher Tony

Later in life, well after Gran and Gramps had emigrated from the UK to Cape Town to be with us, Gramps took up bowls. It wasn't just a hobby; he had found his true calling. While Gran played and enjoyed the social aspect, for Gramps, the green was sacred ground.

He was famously gregarious, a frustrated actor at heart who finally found his stage. Every year at the Annual Bowls Christmas party, he would hold sway as the MC, regaling the club with stories and jokes he had meticulously collected throughout the year. He was the lifeblood of the club, a man whose energy and humor could turn a simple game into a theatrical performance.

Gramps even had a specific, cinematic dream for how his life would conclude. In his mind’s eye, he would sidle up to the edge of the green, supported by his zimmerframe. He would take aim, throw his final "wood," and as it rolled toward the jack, he would suffer a swift, painless heart attack. As the world faded to black, the last sound he would hear—the ultimate validation of a life well-played—would be the cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher! Well done!"

In the physical world, reality was less poetic. Peripheral neuropathy eventually claimed the strength in his legs, forcing him to give up his beloved sport. He spent his final year in a care home, passing away exactly one year after his "darling" had come to get him.

But in my mind, the physical ending doesn't count. When I think of him now, I see him on a super-vivid, ethereal celestial bowling green. He isn't hobbling; he is galloping along with vital abandon, throwing his woods with perfect precision. Gran is there, watching with that sixty-year-old look of love, the clubmates are roaring at his latest story, and the air is filled with the constant, triumphant cry: "Toucher Tony, Toucher!"

Memorable moments: The corporate presentation

Ally—who was my partner of 17 years, had many talents. Timing, as it turns out, is one of them. She discovered it very early in life. 

Her parents had been locked in a grueling, weeks-long battle with her potty training. It was a saga of frustration, failed attempts, and a growing sense of desperation. Ally, sensing the tension, seemed determined to hold out until the stakes were as high as possible.

The opportunity finally arrived when her father hosted a prestigious dinner party for his business colleagues. The house was filled with the clinking of crystal, the smell of a fine roast, and the hushed tones of serious men discussing serious business. Ally had been tucked away in bed, or so they thought.

In the middle of a particularly refined conversation between her father and his boss, the lounge doors swung open.

There stood Ally, clad in her pajamas and radiating a sense of immense professional achievement. In her hands, she held her potty—which was currently occupied by a very successful "delivery."

She marched straight up to her father, hoisted the prize aloft for the boss to inspect, and announced with pure, unadulterated pride:

"Look, Daddy! I made a woofy in my potty!"

After many weeks of resistance, you have to admire the commitment. Ally didn’t just get potty trained. She made sure there was an audience to witness the milestone.

Memorable moments: The urinal overture

A couple of years ago, I went to watch a Nirvana cover band with a group of my hiking friends. Among us was Srini, a wonderful chap originally from India. Srini is a brilliant man, but as English is not his first language, his phrasing can occasionally take a detour into the unintentionally hilarious.

The band was incredible—pure, high-octane energy. The lead singer was giving it his all, thrashing around the stage until the sweat was literally dripping off him. When the band took a well-earned ten-minute break, the venue was buzzing.

Srini headed off to the loo and found himself standing at the urinal right next to the lead singer. The performer was still panting, drenched in the after-effects of a frantic set. Srini, being the friendly soul he is, wanted to acknowledge the man’s Herculean effort. He intended to say something sympathetic like, "Wow, you must be thirsty!"

Instead, he turned to the singer and asked in a polite, conversational tone:

"Hi, are you feeling thirsty?"

In the dimly lit, sweat-soaked atmosphere of a pub bathroom, the phrasing landed with a very different resonance than Srini intended. The lead singer froze, clearly convinced he was being hit on in the middle of a private moment.

He didn't stick around to discuss his hydration levels. He made a bewildered, hasty retreat, leaving Srini standing there, entirely unaware that he had just accidentally auditioned for the role of the band’s most forward groupie.