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 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 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 institution of lumpy custard

Our family used to go round for dinner at Gran and Gramps on a regular basis. It remains one of my favorite memories. Gran was an absolutely awesome cook, a woman who could navigate a kitchen with effortless grace, consistently producing amazing meals that anchored our family life.

But there was one singular, recurring flaw in her culinary repertoire: the custard.

For some reason, the smooth, silken sauce of the professional chef always eluded her. Her custard was invariably lumpy—filled with those strange, sweet islands of undissolved powder that defied every stir of her wooden spoon. It was the one thing she didn't make perfectly.

We turned it into a family institution. We’d sit around the table and make fun of it in the kindest way possible, poking at the "treasures" hidden in our dessert bowls. Gran would just smile, unfazed by the teasing.

As I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that while we admired her for her "perfect" roasts, we truly loved her for that custard. It was a reminder that excellence is impressive, but it’s people’s imperfections that we actually bond over. Those lumps weren't a failure of cooking; they were the texture of home.

Memorable moments: Raspy tongues and greasy pots

When I was sixteen, I went on a school trip to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. It was a sensory-overloaded, extraordinary experience—gliding through secret waterways in a dugout canoe and watching the wildlife drift past.

However, the reality of camping on an island in the Delta involved a fair amount of "suffer-fest" labor. We were a participatory group, which meant everyone shared the chores. The worst of these was the washing up. With no detergent and no hot water, trying to scrub the grease off metal pots and plates was an exercise in futility and frustration. One of my classmates, Peter, took a particular dislike to the task, spending most of the first night complaining bitterly about the state of our cookware.

On the second night, exhausted and defeated by the grime, we were given permission to leave the dirty pots and plates until the morning light.

In the middle of the night, the atmosphere shifted. A clan of hyenas arrived, circling our tents with their eerie, guttural chortling. I remember the smell—it was thick, wild, and incredibly pungent. Lying in my sleeping bag, listening to them sniff around just inches from the canvas, was terrifying. Eventually, the sounds faded, and the "smelly" visitors disappeared into the bush.

The next morning, we braced ourselves for the greasy cleanup. Instead, we found that our cookware had undergone a professional-grade restoration. Every single pot and plate had been scoured to a mirror finish. The hyenas had spent the night using their incredibly raspy tongues—which would have put any metal scourer to shame—to lick every molecule of fat from the metal.

While the rest of us were still shaking off the fear of the night's visitors, Peter was absolutely ecstatic.

"We’ve solved it!" he shouted, holding up a sparkling pot. "We can do this again tonight! No more need to clean the plates!"

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 Paarl Gymnasium massacre

Growing up, my mother was the silent, steady heartbeat of my rugby career. I have the most heart-warming memories of her standing in the pouring rain, huddled under an umbrella, cheering us on through every muddy scrum and sodden tackle. Her love was as consistent as the Cape winter weather.

But there was one fixture on the annual calendar for which her nervous system was simply not equipped: the away match against Paarl Gymnasium.

Paarl Gym was an Afrikaans powerhouse out in the country, and to our prep school eyes, they didn't look like children—they looked like a different species. They towered over us, their forearms the size of our thighs. We were convinced they’d been raised on a strict diet of boerewors and biltong instead of breast milk. For them, winning wasn't just a goal; it was existential.

I have a vivid, slightly traumatic memory of three of us desperately clinging to a single Paarl player, hitching a collective piggyback ride as he thundered toward the try line, completely indifferent to the extra weight of three terrified schoolboys.

And then there were the fathers.

The Paarl dads didn't just spectate; they participated. Many of them wore the exact same rugby kit as their sons, looking like older, angrier versions of the giants on the field. During one particularly lopsided encounter, I saw a father reach down, rip a side flag out of the turf, and begin stabbing the ground with it in a rhythmic frenzy.

"Moer hulle, seuns!" he screamed at the top of his lungs. "Murder them, boys!"

Needless to say, the score was always catastrophically one-sided. I don’t think we ever managed to cross their try line, let alone win a match. I never blamed my mum for sitting those ones out. While she was happy to watch us get wet in the rain, she drew the line at watching us get systematically dismantled by teenage titans while their fathers reenacted medieval battle cries on the touchline.

Memorable moments: Thick as Tina

Growing up, we had a beloved dog named Tina. I have never, in all my years, seen a dog who could wag her tail with such violent, sustained joy. It didn't matter if you’d been gone for two years or two minutes; Tina’s tail was her primary mode of communication.

Eventually, her enthusiasm became her undoing. She wagged so hard and so often against the walls that her tail was constantly injured, the scabs breaking open and spraying blood everywhere in a rhythmic, joyful massacre. It lasted for months until it became untenable. With heavy hearts, my parents had the vet remove it.

Tina returned home wearing a pair of female panties for a few weeks to protect the healing stump. But the loss of the tail didn't dampen her spirit; it just forced her to find a new medium for her delight. From that day on, when she saw you, she would emit a low, rumbling hum of pleasure through her nose while her entire hindquarters swung from side to side in a rhythmic "butt-wag." If the excitement reached a certain threshold, she’d punctuate the moment by widdling with pure joy.

Tina lived for the driveway ball-toss. We had another dog, Meg, and the competition between them was nothing short of existential. For Tina, getting to the ball before Meg wasn't just a game—it was her life’s work. If Meg won, the heartbreak was visible.

When she wasn't competing for tennis balls, Tina was hunting shadows. She was particularly obsessed with the moving silhouettes of butterflies, chasing them across the grass for hours, barking at the ground, and occasionally stubbing her nose on the dirt in her pursuit of a dark spot. At night, she’d transfer that intensity to torchlight, sprinting after a beam of light as if it were a tangible prize.

My grandfather, never one to mince words, used to use her as the family benchmark for intelligence. If my sister or I did or said something particularly dim-witted, he’d shake his head and say, "Don’t be as thick as Tina."

He wasn't entirely wrong about her IQ, but I loved her with all my heart. She was the kinetic, shadow-chasing soundtrack to my childhood and teens—a dog who might not have understood how light worked, but who understood exactly how to love a family with every fiber of her (short-tailed) being.

Memorable moments: The empty envelope

When I was in prep school, I went to spend Christmas with my friend Greg Perks and his family at his grandparents' house in Plettenberg Bay. It was a classic, sun-drenched coastal Christmas, and we all gathered in the living room for the sacred ritual of opening presents and cards.

The atmosphere was festive until Greg opened the card from his Gran.

He pulled it out, read the message, and his face immediately fell into a mask of pure confusion and mild disappointment. He looked at the empty envelope, then back at the card, and then at his mother, Barbara.

Barbara, meanwhile, was having an identical experience. She stared at her own card with a furrowed brow, looking increasingly concerned.

The message inside every single card, written in Gran’s elegant hand, was the same: "Buy yourself a present this year."

After the gift-opening ended, Barbara pulled Gran aside for a "little word," her voice laced with genuine worry.

"Mum," she whispered, "is everything okay? What did you mean by what you wrote in the cards? Are you... financially strapped? Do we need to help?"

Gran looked at her with total bewilderment. "Financially strapped? Heavens, no! Why on earth would you think that?"

"Well," Barbara replied, "you told everyone to buy themselves a present."

Gran’s eyes went wide as the realization hit her. "Oh my goodness!" she cried. "I’ve just been so busy! I sat down and wrote out cheques for every single one of you, and I fully intended to include them. But I’ve just realized... I forgot to actually put the cheques in the cards!"

Sure enough, a quick trip to her cupboard revealed the missing small fortune, neatly signed and waiting for a home.

Memorable moments: The blackboard brawl

In 1984, my school world shifted. We moved away from the dour, strict atmosphere of the previous headmaster and into the era of Mr. Cannon. He was charismatic, warm, and—most importantly—an unbelievable teacher. In his first year, he tossed out the standard textbook and devoted half the syllabus to an "alternative" approach. We were no longer students; we were detectives, gleaning history from archaeological clues and conflicting accounts.

But the most powerful lesson I ever received didn't come from a book or a shard of pottery. It came from a staged "scandal" that has stayed with me for nearly forty years.

We were in the middle of a session when the Deputy Head, Mr. Hart, stormed into the classroom. He looked livid. He marched up to Mr. Cannon and bellowed, "I saw you eyeing up my wife the other day! How dare you!" (To this day, I’m not even sure Mr. Hart was married, but the delivery was flawless).

The class sat in stunned, horizontal silence as the two most powerful men in our school got into a physical scuffle. Mr. Hart shoved Mr. Cannon against the blackboard, teeth bared, shouting more angry words while we watched in total disbelief.

"You haven't heard the end of this!" Mr. Hart finally screamed, storming out and slamming the door.

The tension in the room was thick enough to carve. We were reeling—what had we just witnessed? Mr. Cannon calmly straightened his tie, dusted off his jacket, and turned to us with a slow, knowing smile.

"Right class," he said quietly. "What did just happen here?"

The relief that swept through the room as we realized it was a performance was immense, but the real work was just beginning. Mr. Cannon began to grill us on the details. What was Mr. Hart wearing? What exactly did he say? What did his body language insinuate?

The results were staggering. Even though we had all been in the same small room, watching the same event only ten minutes prior, our accounts were a mess of contradictions. We argued over the words used, the intensity of the shove, and even the color of Mr. Hart's tie.

Mr. Cannon grinned with the satisfaction of a man who had just pulled off the ultimate heist.

"Well, class," he said, "if you can't all agree on something you witnessed first-hand ten minutes ago, how in the hell can you believe in historical accounts? How can you believe in history?"

Nearly forty years later, the details of that day are still more vivid to me than any date I ever memorized for an exam. That is the definition of powerful teaching: creating an experience so disorienting that the truth finally has a chance to sink in.

Memorable moments: The ribbon transformation

When I was in high school, our mathematical world was presided over by Mr. Norton. To our teenage eyes, he seemed ancient—at least eighty years old—and his teaching style was as dry as the chalk dust he conjured. We were a naturally unruly bunch, and Mr. Norton’s dullness was the perfect fuel for our misbehavior. We pushed every boundary, right up until the day reality crashed into the classroom: Mr. Norton had a sudden heart attack.

The guilt was immediate and heavy. We felt personally responsible for his failing heart, and his long absence left a somber void. That void, however, was soon filled by a replacement who couldn't have been further from Mr. Norton’s world.

She was an eighteen-year-old Polish girl, straight out of university, named Miss Kateryna. She was young, pretty, and possessed a simple, daily ritual that became the focal point of our lives: she wore a different colored ribbon in her hair every single day.

The effect on our class was miraculous.

Before she even stepped through the door, the once-rowdy room would be hushed in anticipation as we placed frantic bets on the day's color. "Yellow?" "Deep blue?" "Red?" The entire class was hopelessly, collectively smitten.

We had spent years perfecting the art of being a nuisance, but in her presence, we became like meek puppies. The transition was total. You could hear a pin drop in that room; we hung on her every word, suddenly finds ourselves intensely interested in the properties of a parabola or the mysteries of calculus.

It turns out that what Mr. Norton’s decades of experience couldn't achieve, a bit of Ukrainian charm and a silk ribbon did in an afternoon. We were a group of teenagers who had successfully defeated an "ancient" authority figure, only to be completely conquered by an eighteen-year-old with a penchant for primary colors.

Memorable moments: The CEO of Christmas

My friend Sean Peche had a father who was a true force of nature. He didn’t just participate in life; he commanded it. He ran a highly successful business, chaired the South African pigeon racing society, and headed the board of parents at our school, St George’s. At every school fete, he was the MC, and at every sports day, his voice boomed across the field with a resonance that made the official PA system look amateur.

In our world, Mr. Peche was the ultimate authority.

One day in high school, Sean made a startling confession about his early childhood. Like all kids, he’d eventually been sat down for "the talk" about the man in the red suit. But because of his father’s relentless energy and CV of leadership roles, Sean had a very unique misunderstanding.

When he was told the classic line, "Santa Claus is your dad," Sean didn't realize it was a metaphor for parents buying presents.

He took it literally. He spent a significant amount of time in a state of deep, existential confusion—unsure whether to be disappointed that the North Pole was a myth, or immensely impressed that his father managed to find time between the pigeon racing and the school board to fly a sleigh around the world in a single night.

Most kids lose their faith in magic; Sean just gained a whole new level of respect for his father’s time-management skills.

Memorable moments: The gangly champion

In my early school days, I was the quintessential nerd—more likely to be found in the library than on the rugby pitch. My athletic career started with a distinct lack of promise; I spent my first few rugby matches standing aimlessly on the field, sucking my thumb while my mother watched from the sidelines in a state of terminal embarrassment.

But in Standard 3, aged 10, my gangly, awkward frame suddenly found its purpose. I discovered I could leap. I could leap high, and I could leap far.

That year, for the first time in my life, I wasn't just "the smart kid." I won the high jump and the long jump for my age group. Then, feeling bold, I competed in the age group above mine—and I won both of those, too. I spent the rest of the day vibrating with the anticipation of the prize-giving ceremony.

I went up twice to collect my cups for my own age group. Then came the awards for the seniors. The presenter looked at the list, squinted, and frowned. He looked at me, looked back at the paper, and decided there had clearly been a massive administrative mistake. No one "nerdy" could possibly sweep two age groups.

He skipped the award entirely. I sat back down, trophy-less and invisible once again.

It was a crushing disappointment, but I eventually found my redemption. A few years later, I walked back up to that stage to receive the award for "Most Improved Rugby Player." I had finally traded my thumb for a tackle—and this time, they didn't need a calculator to believe it.

Memorable moments: Highlander of the high school

Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.

Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.

For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.

It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.

So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.

But life has a funny way of balancing things out.

Because despite all that effort…

I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.

Memorable moments: The posh poodle predicament

When I was an early teen, I went on holiday to Plettenberg Bay with my school friend, Greg Perkes. We stayed with his grandparents, who were the living embodiment of "posh"—all silver tea services, refined accents, and an atmosphere so polite you felt you needed a permit just to sneeze.

We were sitting in the lounge, balancing delicate china plates on our knees and exchanging pleasantries. My arm was hanging casually by the side of my chair when, suddenly, I felt something latch onto my forearm. It was followed by a very specific, very rhythmic sensation between my fingers.

One of the family’s prize poodles had decided I was the love of its life.

In any other house, someone would have shouted or shooed the dog away. But in this house, the commitment to "decorum" was absolute. Greg’s grandparents continued to discuss the weather and the tea with unwavering focus, staring directly ahead as if my arm wasn't currently being courted by a small, curly-haired romantic.

I was trapped. I didn't want to rip my arm away and shatter the fragile polite silence, so I just sat there—nodding, sipping tea, and trying to look "refined" while a dog made a very honest woman out of my left limb.

It took an eternity to delicately extricate myself without making a scene.

I went in expecting a lesson in high-society manners; I left realizing that "posh" is just a fancy word for being able to ignore a poodle’s mid-afternoon climax while asking if I’d like another lump of sugar.

Memorable moments: The forbidden linens

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at my friend Patrick’s house in Constantia. His family was incredibly wealthy and social, the kind of people who hosted high-stakes dinner parties for his father’s corporate clients.

One afternoon, preparation for a particularly "fancy" evening was in full swing. while Patrick and I were busy on the trampoline, I retreated inside to use the guest loo. There, hanging prominently above a set of pristine, plush hand towels, was a massive, handwritten note:

"DON'T USE THE TOWELS ON PAIN OF DEATH!"

Clearly, Patrick’s mother had reached her breaking point with her children’s messy habits and wanted those towels to remain magazine-perfect for the arrival of the dignitaries.

The party began, the champagne flowed, and the house filled with fifty of the city’s most influential people. But, as Patrick told me the next day, his mother had committed a fatal social error: she forgot to remove the note.

For the entire night, fifty sophisticated guests entered that bathroom, read the threat, and—terrified of whatever "death" awaited them at the hands of their hostess—exited in total silence.

The dinner was a triumph and the wine was top-shelf, but by the end of the evening, those towels remained exactly as they started: fluffy, bone-dry, and arguably the most feared objects in Constantia.

Memorable moments: The gem squash gambit

At school, some teachers—especially the formidable Miss Mallet—were legendary for their "clean plate" policy. This was no issue for "human garbage cans" like me, but for my classmate Sean Peche, Friday lunch was a weekly brush with death. Sean harbored a primal, soul-deep hatred for fish, and he spent every Friday gagging his way through a greasy fillet under the unblinking gaze of Miss Mallet.

One Friday, Sean arrived with a plan. He meticulously ate the flesh of his gem squash, leaving the hollowed-out green skin behind. Then, with the precision of a structural engineer, he began packing his fried fish into the shell. He compressed it so tightly it achieved the density of a black hole, before flipping the squash upside down to make it look like a harmless, untouched vegetable.

It was a masterpiece of camouflage. Unfortunately, Miss Mallet was a veteran of the "fish ruse" wars.

She marched over, flipped the squash, and exposed the compressed contraband. In a move of true pedagogical cruelty, she announced that nobody—not one of us—could leave for playtime until Sean had consumed every single, high-density mouthful.

We sat there in agonizing solidarity, watching Sean’s heroic, pale-faced struggle against the laws of biology. How he didn't decorate the dining hall floor I’ll never know.

Sean may have lost the battle against the gem squash, but he won the respect of every hungry boy who just wanted to go outside and kick a ball.

Memorable moments: The blackboard’s secret

In high school, we were plagued by a phantom prankster whose commitment to the bit was truly terrifying. We never did find out who it was, but their magnum opus remains etched in my memory (and my nostrils) to this day.

It started as a faint, metallic tang in our maths classroom. By Tuesday, it was a distraction. By Thursday, it was a biological hazard. The odor became so thick and aggressive that the entire class was forced to evacuate, relocating to the school lawn to solve equations in the fresh air.

Eventually, the school authorities traced the epicenter of the stench to the front of the room. They began detaching the massive, heavy blackboard from the wall, and as the wood pulled away from the stone, the culprit was revealed.

A large, green, thoroughly putrefied piece of fish—which had been ripening in the dark for days—slid slowly down the wall. It landed with a sickening squelch directly into the open satchel of a very unfortunate student standing below.

The culprit was never caught, leaving the mystery unsolved for decades.

I suppose we’ll never know who the phantom was, but I’d like to think that somewhere out there, a retired prankster is still smiling, knowing he’s the only person in history to make a roomful of teenagers actually want to go outside and do trigonometry.

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.