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."

Memorable moments: The rose and the bromance

It’s amazing to think how the most important friendship of my life began. At the start of my final year at university, I had just started dating Ally. We were completely smitten, spending every spare moment together.

But I wasn't the only one who noticed her.

Every day, as Ally sat on the Jamie Steps at UCT, a charming, quirky guy named Russell would approach her and gallantly present her with a single rose. He was persistent, funny, and utterly unique. Ally was flattered, but eventually, she had to break the news: "I'm sorry, I have a boyfriend."

Russell, being the gentleman he is, backed off immediately, but he and Ally remained friendly. Then, the day came when I finally met the man who had been "wooing" my girlfriend.

I didn't feel a shred of jealousy. Instead, I immediately fell for him.

He was hilarious, adventurous, and possessed a spark of madness that matched my own. Our "bromance" was instantaneous. Ally and I stayed together for the next seventeen years, and throughout that time, Russell was the third pillar of our lives. He even moved in as our housemate for several years—a period I still count among the most enjoyable and laughter-filled times of my life.

Ally and I eventually went our separate ways in 2009, but my bond with Russell remained unshakable. Even now, living in different countries, our friendship is priceless. Whenever I return home to visit family, we don't just "catch up" over coffee; we disappear into the mountains or head off on some new adventure, picking up exactly where we left off on the Jamie Steps.

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 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 Kleinmond interruption

I met my future wife to be, Ally, in the tiny village of Kleinmond, two hours outside of Cape Town. We were camped on opposite sides of a rusty old fence, but by the final night, the "spark" between us was undeniable—aided, in no small part, by the generous flow of alcohol around the communal braai.

Ally was playful. She spontaneously bit my earlobe, and when I warned her of the "consequences," she promptly did it again. I moved in for the clinch.

Now, I consider myself a very capable kisser. I was fully prepared for Ally to swoon, to be consumed by the moment, and to forget the rest of the world existed. For a few seconds, it seemed to be working perfectly.

Then, without warning, she detached herself from my embrace. She didn't look at me. Instead, she leaned toward her friend sitting a few feet away.

"Colleen," she announced firmly, "I must butt in and disagree with what you’ve been saying. I think that..."

I stood there, mid-clinch, abandoned for a theological or political debate I hadn't even realized was happening. My confidence didn't just take a hit; it did a backflip into the campfire.

Ally eventually blamed the alcohol, and I eventually forgave the rebuttal. We went on to spend 17 wonderful years together, but I made sure to check for nearby debates before every kiss from then on.