Memorable moments: The lemonade trap

One of the absolute favorite jobs of my life was working for Volvo Construction Equipment. I was brought on board to help drive an ambitious Volvo Group web project, a role that saw me traveling across Europe, heading over to Brazil, and jetting into the United States. I loved the projects, the travel, and above all, the incredible people I worked with.

Yet the entire trajectory of that chapter could easily have never happened at all. In reality, it all hinged on a single, high-stakes split-second decision made over an empty table.

My interview was scheduled in a tiny town just outside Cambridge. I caught the morning train up from London and met with Mats and Caroline, two brilliant individuals who would go on to become cherished colleagues. The formal part of the interview went smoothly enough—the scope sounded exciting, I expressed enthusiastic interest, and we wrapped things up on a positive note.

Then came the unexpected second stage.

"Would you like to join us for lunch down the road?" they asked.

A few minutes later, we were settled into a gorgeous 1660 English pub called The John Barleycorn a few blocks away, joined by several other team members. The conversation was warm, relaxed, and full of lively banter. Then the waitress arrived at our table, notepad in hand.

"Can I get you all something to drink before lunch?" she asked.

Mats turned to me, fixed me with an attentive look, and said, "What would you like to drink, Graeme?"

In an instant, the lively chatter vanished. A sudden, palpable hush descended over the table as every set of eyes turned directly toward me.

My internal alarm bells started ringing. What is the protocol here? This was a middle-of-the-day corporate interview lunch. Was it a trap to see if I was overly casual during business hours, or a test of social ease? I wasn’t even a big beer drinker to begin with.

Caught in the crosshairs of professional etiquette and workplace ambiguity, I threw caution to the wind and said, "I'll have a beer, please."

Instantly, the tension broke like a snapped wire. A collective wave of relief swept across the table, the noise returned at full volume, and every single person promptly chimed in: "I'll have a pint as well!"

We had a fantastic meal, the rapport was effortless, and a few days later, the formal job offer arrived in my inbox.

Once I started, I quickly discovered that after-work pints and pub culture were central pillars of team life. As it turned out, that sudden hush in the pub wasn't an accident—Mats offering me the first drink order was very much the decisive final test of the interview. As qualified as I was on paper for the role, had I played it safe and answered with a polite "I'll just have a lemonade, thanks," I am fairly certain I would have caught the train back to London empty-handed.

The John Barleycorn where we had lunch

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Memorable moments: From the Crossfire to Cairo

We all experience distinct highs and lows across our working lives—roles that light us up with purpose and ones we desperately wish away.

The absolute lowest point of my career came in London back in 2001. I was living with Ally when the dot-com bubble burst in dramatic fashion, taking my job at Siegelgale down with it. With the tech market frozen, finding another role proved impossible. As weeks stretched on, I found myself battling both a depleted bank account and deep, unrelenting boredom.

Desperate for an outlet, I spotted an advert in our local paper for a marshal at a nearby paintball range. Having always loved playing paintball, I applied on a whim and was hired.

It was nothing like the expansive, sunlit forests I had played in back in South Africa. The venue was a grim, dimly lit, dilapidated warehouse. My primary responsibility was to stand pressed against a concrete wall in the dangerous no-man's-land between two opposing teams, ensuring players followed the safety rules.

I quickly discovered a harsh workplace reality: as far as the players were concerned, the marshals were entirely fair game.

I spent shifts being relentlessly pelted by high-velocity paint pellets, winced through genuine physical bruising, and had paint constantly dripping from my overalls. When the battles finally ended, the misery didn't. The marshals then had to strip and clean the jammed guns. Nearly every marker had malfunctioned, filling the barrels with thick, sticky sludge that took endless scrubbing and rinsing in icy water to dislodge.

For this bruised ordeal, we were handed a paltry five pounds an hour—the lowest wage I had ever earned in my entire life. Trudging home through the freezing London dark, covered in drying paint, I felt completely grounded at rock bottom.

Needing a radical change of direction, I threw another application into the wind—this time to overland expedition companies. Through an extraordinary stroke of luck, despite having zero prior tour experience, I landed a role as an expedition leader running overland trips across the Middle East between Istanbul and Cairo.

The pay was a mere ten pounds a day—technically even less per hour than the warehouse—yet it was instantly the most exhilarating, life-affirming job I had ever known. In a single leap, I had gone from taking stray shots in a damp London basement to navigating desert crossings, ancient ruins, and unforgettable horizons.

After five months on the road, Ally called me home. I returned to the UK transformed: my confidence was sky-high and euphoric. With that renewed energy, I walked straight into a fantastic role as an e-business project manager for Volvo, traveling extensively across Europe.

Whenever life hits a difficult trough today, I cast my mind back to that cold London warehouse. It serves as an enduring reminder of how life actually moves: our greatest periods of reinvention and euphoria often lie waiting just on the other side of our lowest moments.

Stories from my life

"A human being is nothing but a story with skin around it."  Fred Allen

I've been having so much fun remembering and writing the stories from my life and some of the stories of the people I love.  Lots more stories to come. When my memory gets going, there seems to be an endless supply!

Stories by theme

• Funny
• Embarrassing
• Inspiring
• Insights
• Disgusting
• School
• Teachers
• University
• Work
• Travel
• Flights
• Sport
• Spirituality
• Music
• Camping
• Hiking
• Birding
• Pets
• Love
• Romance
• Friendship
• Relationships
• Sex
• Nudity
• Food
• Medical
• Pranks
• Nicknames

Stories by life stage

• Childhood
• School years
• University years
• Old Mutual years
• Life at Willow Road
• London years
• Cambridge years
• Life at King Street

People involved

• Family
• Mum
• Mike
• Dad
• Jo
• Gran
• Gramps
• Granny & Grandpa
• Ally
• Mack
• Friends
• Russell
• Ivor
• Chrisel
• Oliver
• Housemates
• Teachers

⬇︎ Keep scrolling for all posts tagged as “Story”

Memorable moments: The mountain hugger

I have always had a healthy, visceral terror of heights. I suspect I inherited it from my gramps, who had it so bad he was wary of climbing even two rungs up a step ladder.

My hiking mates, on the other hand, are utterly fearless. Whenever a trail skirts a sheer drop, they skip along nonchalantly while I instinctively press my entire body against the rock face, hugging the mountain with every ounce of grip I possess. Curiously, my fear comes with a strange paradox: if there is deep water below, the terror completely evaporates. In fact, I love nothing more than leaping off high cliffs into a river. But sheer drops onto solid rock? Absolutely not.

Lately, this acrophobia has taken on a life of its own, reaching its absolute zenith whenever I am in a car traversing a narrow mountain pass with no guardrails—especially when I’m sitting in the passenger seat staring straight down into the void.

Not long ago, Russell and I headed up into the Cederberg for a weekend hike. As the road snaked higher and higher up the pass, with nothing between our tyres and a sheer thousand-foot drop, panic took hold. It got so bad that I couldn't take it anymore—I made Russell pull over so I could take the wheel myself.

My brilliant survival strategy? I immediately veered across the road to hug the solid cliff wall on the right-hand side, crawling along at a snail's pace on the complete wrong side of the road.

By every objective measure of road safety, I had replaced the mild, theoretical risk of sliding off an edge with the immediate, high-probability danger of an oncoming car obliterating us head-on around a blind corner.

It was a stark, comical reminder of a deeper truth: the thing we truly have to fear most is fear itself. It arrives disguised as wise self-preservation, whispering that it is keeping us safe, when in reality its blind panic often steers us directly into far greater danger.

Memorable moments: The Buddhist Pizza

I went away for the weekend to a picturesque farm in Robertson, South Africa, with Russell and a great group of friends. It was an absolute paradise, set right beside a calm, beautiful lake.

Knowing in advance that the open-plan kitchen next to our sleeping cottages was equipped with a genuine, wood-fired pizza oven, we decided that night two would be dedicated entirely to homemade pizzas. Everyone was instructed to bring their absolute favorite toppings to contribute to the feast.

When it came time to prep, we laid everything out on a central table. My goodness, what a spread! It had every classic topping imaginable, alongside an incredible array of gourmet treats like caramelized figs, tangy blue cheese, sweet peppadews, and cured meats.

Standing before that glorious buffet, I was in absolute heaven. I simply could not find it in my heart to say no to a single ingredient. I kept layering and layering until my pizza base was piled so high it looked like a miniature model of the Himalayas.

Rob was on official oven duty that evening, carefully maneuvering the pizzas into the roaring fire with the wooden paddle and pulling them out when the crusts turned crisp and golden. When I proudly carried my creation over to him, he stopped in his tracks and stared at the towering mound of toppings in sheer astonishment.

"My God," Rob gasped, shaking his head. "It's not a veggie pizza. It's not a Hawaiian pizza. It's not a Meat Lover's pizza. It's not even a Deluxe pizza... It's a bloody Buddhist pizza!"

I looked at him, completely puzzled. "What on earth do you mean?" I asked.

Rob grinned and replied, "It's one with everything!"

Memorable moments: Mid-tackle realization

When I was in my early teens, I played a lot of rugby at school. Every Saturday meant a high-stakes match against a rival school, and to protect my teeth from the inevitable collisions, I always wore a fitted plastic mouthguard.

One afternoon earlier that week, I walked into the lounge at home and caught our family dog, Tina, enthusiastically chewing on something in her paws. I rushed over and pried it out of her jaws: it was my rugby mouthguard, dripping with warm, soggy dog saliva. Since I was in a massive hurry to head out, I set it down on the table and made a firm mental note to give it a thorough, heavy-duty scrub with strong soap later on.

Fast forward to Saturday morning. I was out on the field in the middle of a fiercely contested match against another school. The crowd was roaring, parents were cheering frantically from the sidelines, and the energy was intense.

I locked eyes on an opposing player charging toward me with the ball, dropped my shoulders, and braced myself to make a massive tackle.

Then, at the exact split-second before impact, my brain suddenly flashed back to the table at home.

Oh no. I forgot to clean my mouthguard.

It was sitting firmly in my mouth, right where it always was for a game. A sudden wave of utter horror washed over me, and it took every single ounce of my willpower not to spit the soggy piece of plastic straight onto the grass in front of everyone. But with an opponent flying at me and parents screaming from the sidelines, there was no time for sanitation protocols—it was far too late now.

Memorable moments: The sardine can miracle

During my school days at St George's, a student in the year above me named James was renowned for being a little eccentric. He was fiercely intelligent, but he had a habit of pacing up and down while muttering to himself, completely absorbed in his own thoughts. Whenever he became obsessed with a new subject, he would transform overnight into a walking encyclopedia, spouting forth intricate details to anyone within earshot. He was friendly enough, and I always quite liked him.

After school, James went on to the University of Cape Town, but our paths continued to cross at a local Christian youth group. By then, he had directed the full, laser-focused intensity of his intellect toward religion, rapidly becoming a formidable scholar on all things biblical.

When I eventually advanced to the University of Cape Town myself, James was already a legendary campus fixture, famous among the student body for his endless pacing up and down the iconic Jamieson Steps.

One afternoon, I stepped into the campus lift to head up to the chemistry lab, and by pure coincidence, James was inside too. We greeted each other warmly. As the lift ascended floor by floor, more and more students piled in, until the space became uncomfortably squished—a complete sardine can of packed bodies.

Just as the claustrophobia reached its absolute peak, James cleared his throat with great authority. He somehow managed to swivel around, looked out over the sea of trapped faces, and announced at full volume:

"I want you all to know that Jesus loves you. Praise His holy name!"

The moment the doors slid open at the very next floor, there was a frantic stampede for the exits. A complete mass exodus - half the lift emptied out in a split second, leaving behind a blissful expanse of empty space.

James turned to me with a brilliant, mischievous smile and whispered, "Praise Jesus! Works every time."

Memorable moments: The descriptive fallacy

I taught English for two years at an adult college in Sydney, and on the whole, I loved it. It was a wonderful break from the corporate world and a fantastic outlet for my creativity. But there was one specific incident that was deeply regrettable, incredibly challenging, and easily one of the most embarrassing moments of my professional life.

Every term, I would be assigned a new class of at least twenty students. Many of them had names that were difficult for me to pronounce or remember—particularly the Thai students—and remembering names has never been my strong suit. Since I was expected to know everyone's name within the first couple of lessons, I developed a mnemonic system. On the very first day, I would write quick, descriptive trigger words next to each name on my official roster to jog my memory: Bubbly Brazilian, Very Tall, Bright Red Glasses, and so on.

During one frantic first lesson, as I tried to quickly catalog twenty new faces, I hit a wall with one female student. I couldn't immediately spot a distinct clothing item or personality trait to lock onto, so in the heat of the moment, I hastily scribbled "fat face" next to her name.

Four days later, during a brief break in class, I stepped out to go to the toilet. In my haste, I stupidly left my folder sitting open on my desk.

One of the male students in the class was utterly obsessed with his attendance record, as his student visa strictly depended on it. Seeing his chance, he surreptitiously walked up to my desk, opened the folder, and began scanning the roster to check his marks. That was when his eyes landed on the handwritten note next to his classmate's name.

Instead of keeping quiet, he promptly blurted it out to the entire room. The class erupted into laughter, and the poor girl was understandably humiliated.

She immediately went down to the principal's office to lodge a formal complaint. When I found out what had happened, I felt absolutely sick to my stomach. I apologized profusely to both the student and the director, thoroughly horrified by the pain my careless shorthand had caused.

It was a brutal, unforgettable lesson. From that day onward, I made a strict rule never to write anything on my roster that wasn't overwhelmingly flattering. No student ever snooped in my folder again, but if they had, they would have been absolutely thrilled with what they found.

Memorable moments: The three great twitches

In the birding community, those of us who obsessively pursue rare or elusive species are often known as "twitchers." The name comes from a very real, very physical phenomenon. When you finally spot a bird you’ve spent years searching for, a wave of intense excitement hits you. You raise your binoculars to your eyes, but the surge of adrenaline is so overwhelming that a tremor sets in. Your arms begin to shake, and sometimes the twitching spreads through your entire body. It is an extraordinary reaction that has to be experienced to be believed.

Over a lifetime of scanning treetops and riverbanks, I like to say that I have only truly twitched three times.

The first was in the lush wilderness of Ndumu, when I caught a sudden, violent flash of crimson through the canopy—the rare and breathtaking Narina Trogon.

The second was also in Ndumu, when my binoculars landed on the distinctive rufous face of the elusive Pel's Fishing Owl perched silently above the water.

And the third, most unforgettable twitch occurred along the banks of the Palmiet River.

Shortly after meeting Ally and her group of friends, a bunch of us went down to the river for a late-night, moonlit skinny dip. As everyone scrambled into the cool water, I caught a sudden, distinct sight of Ally’s white rump disappearing into the shadows of the river.

Right then and there, the classic birder’s tremor set in. My body began to twitch, and a single, crystal-clear thought echoed through my mind: Wow, I’m going to marry that girl.

I didn't need binoculars for that last sighting, but the instinct was spot on. We ended up spending seventeen wonderful years together—proving that sometimes, the rarest and most life-changing sightings aren't hiding high up in the trees at all.

Memorable moments: The pot plant contingency

When I was in my early twenties, I went to see the doctor. I can't recall the exact reason for the visit, but at one point, he decided he needed a urine sample.

"Oh dear," I said, wincing. "I actually just went to the loo right before I came in."

"Not to worry," he replied smoothly. "I only need a tiny drop."

He handed me a small plastic container, gestured to the room, and stepped outside to give me some privacy.

I positioned the bottle and began, pleasantly surprised and relieved that my body was cooperating enough to squeeze out a modest sample. But then, to my great surprise, the flow didn't taper off. In fact, it gathered momentum.

I watched in mounting panic as the fluid reached a quarter full... then half full... then three-quarters full—and I was still going at full throttle.

Oh no, I thought, a wave of sheer desperation hitting me. The bottle isn't big enough! What on earth am I going to do?!

Panic-driven calculations raced through my mind. Stepping out into the packed waiting room mid-stream was obviously out of the question. I scanned the small consultation room with wide, manic eyes. My gaze darted to a potted plant in the corner—could I get away with watering the Ficus? Then I looked at the window—could I somehow crack it open and aim for the flowerbed outside without the passersby noticing?

Just as I was on the absolute brink of making a terrible, life-altering decision, the tide miraculously turned. The flow sputtered and stopped, leaving the urine exactly one inch from the absolute brim.

A moment later, the doctor walked back in. He took one look at the sloshing, overflowing vessel handed to him by the young man who five minutes earlier insisted his tank was completely empty, and stood there in silent, utter astonishment.

Memorable moments: From Party Animal to Grumpy Old Man

Mackie, my beautiful Jack Russell, underwent a profound shift in his relationship with the younger generation as he aged.

When he was in his prime, he loved kids with all his heart. I have vivid memories of taking him to my friend Andreas's house for his young son Lucas’s birthday party. Mackie was the undisputed life and soul of the event. The kids had endless fun throwing a tennis ball for him, and Mackie had the time of his life chasing it down and bringing it back, completely tireless.

Then, around the ripe old age of sixteen, a switch flipped. Mackie officially retired from his role as party entertainer and decided he was completely over youngsters—whether they were energetic human children or overeager puppies.

At the park, if a young whippersnapper of a dog bounced up to say hello, Mackie would let out a low growl and occasionally even snap to enforce his personal space. He took the exact same stance with children. This posed a bit of a diplomatic challenge, because even in his twilight years, Mackie looked utterly adorable, and kids would naturally wander over wanting to pet him. I constantly had to intervene and explain that the cute little dog had grown very grumpy in his old age.

My daily routine involved walking Mackie and sometimes tethering him outside the local shop for five minutes while I popped in for a few items.

One afternoon, standing near the back of the store, I glanced toward the front entrance to check on him. To my horror, I saw a small child stepping toward Mackie, arm already outstretched to give him a pat.

It instantly became one of those ultra-slow-motion action movie sequences. In my head, a deep "NOOOOO!" echoed as I lunged toward the doorway, desperate to prevent a nipping incident before it was too late.

Thankfully, Mackie merely let out a stern, warning growl rather than a bite, and the child pulled back safely. But that was the end of his solo waiting privileges outside the shop.

Grumpy or not, I adored Mackie in every single one of his moods. After all, when you are pushing close to a hundred in human years, you’ve earned the absolute right to assert your seniority and tell the young whippersnappers to get off your lawn.

Memorable moments: A seasoned disappointment

I will never forget the first big raffle I ever won. It was at a massive event—I can't recall the exact occasion now—and anticipation in the room was running high. There were two major prizes up for grabs.

The ticket for the first prize was drawn, and a woman was called up to the stage to collect her reward: an all-expenses-paid trip to Italy. It was a magnificent, dream-of-a-lifetime prize, and the crowd applauded wildly as she went up to accept it.

Then came the moment for the second prize. The host read out the ticket number, and to my absolute shock, it was me! I am normally the kind of person who never wins anything, so I was surprised and thoroughly delighted. As I walked down the aisle toward the stage, my mind was racing with possibilities, wondering what exotic corner of the globe I was about to be whisked away to.

I stepped onto the stage, smiled, and was promptly handed... a large, heavy black bag filled to the brim with something bulky.

What on earth have I won? I thought, holding the sack. A bag of refuse?

I peeked inside, and the reality set in: it was packed to the top with spices. A lifetime supply of culinary seasonings.

Now, a professional chef might have been overjoyed with such a bounty, but I don't cook. The transition from imagining a romantic getaway in Tuscany to holding ten kilograms of ground coriander was an utter, hilarious disappointment.

Needless to say, those spices lasted me for a very long time. In fact, over twenty years later, I have a strong suspicion that a few forgotten jars from that faithful night are still quietly lurking in the dark recesses of my spice drawer.

Memorable moments: The sonic wake-up call

I have a rather unfortunate physiological quirk that causes me profound embarrassment every now and then.

It usually happens when I’m commuting on a quiet train or settled into a long-haul flight. The soothing rhythm of the travel lulls me, my eyes grow heavy, and I start to feel tired. My head slowly sinks down toward my chest, and I momentarily doze off into a peaceful, blissful sleep.

Then, without a single second of warning, my airway collapses and I let out the loudest snort imaginable—a real ripper from deep within the nasal passages, sounding remarkably like a walrus in heat.

The violent sonic boom of my own body shoots me instantly back to full consciousness. My head snaps up, my eyes fly open, and I am immediately met with the horror of thirty fellow passengers who have all turned in their seats to identify the source of the mighty blast.

Thankfully this doesn't happen too often, but when it does, I want to be swallowed up by the floorboards. My only survival strategy is to instantly join the rest of the carriage in looking around with an expression of deep, horrified disgust, silently asking the crowd, "Can you believe the nerve of whoever just did that?!"

Memorable moments: The British Pub Test

My friend Gavin comes from the UK, and during his younger days, he and his mates used to partake in some wild and rather disturbing pub games. One of their absolute favorites was an incredibly bizarre tradition known simply as "cock or ball."

After several pints of beer had been consumed, the game would begin. One of the lads would carefully pull a tiny, isolated piece of skin through the zipper of their trousers—sourced from either the shaft or the testicles. The remaining players then had to examine the exposed sample and make their official deduction.

Apparently, differentiating between the two under dim pub lighting is a lot harder than you might think. Whoever guessed incorrectly was penalized and had to down their drink. For Gavin and his crew, this high-stakes anatomical guessing game caused a great deal of mirth and became a staple of their nights out.

While it certainly makes for a memorable story, I am incredibly glad Gavin has long since moved on from his wilder days. It is definitely not a game I would relish participating in. When I go out for a pint, I prefer to keep my private life completely private, leaving my anatomy safely tucked away exactly where it belongs.

Memorable moments: The existential check-in

James was a wonderful hiking friend who joined us on several of our trail outings before he eventually moved back to New Zealand. He is a profoundly thoughtful chap with a deep interest in existential issues, so I always felt a strong intellectual resonance with him. He also happened to have a highly unusual hobby: several times a week, he would sit inside his broom cupboard, take a heroic dose of magic mushrooms, and attempt to tap directly into the fabric of the universe.

One night, fresh off a session in the cupboard, James came to meet Gavin, me, and a few mates at the local pub.

When he walked in, he greeted us normally but looked a little preoccupied. As the rest of the table fell into our usual loud banter and storytelling, James sat quietly, not saying much of anything, just observing the scene with a distant look in his eye.

Then, during a brief lull in the conversation, he suddenly leaned across the table toward Gavin and me. Lowering his voice to a hushed breath, he asked with total seriousness, "Guys... am I actually here?"

It became instantly clear what was happening. The dose had been so intense that he was struck by the disturbing thought that he was still sitting alone in the dark among the mops and buckets, entirely hallucinating the pub, the pints, and his friends.

Gavin and I quickly reassured him that he was, in fact, physically sitting in the pub with us. A look of great relief washed over his face, and he slowly settled back into his chair. I have never taken mushrooms myself, and listening to a grown man ask his mates for structural confirmation of his own physical existence convinced me right then and there that I probably never would.

Memorable moments: The 5th floor summons

During my time at Old Mutual, I worked with a colleague named David. He was a friendly guy with a great sense of humor—sometimes bordering on the risqué—and he was incredibly laid back. Absolutely nothing flustered him. Except for one time, under an extraordinary set of circumstances.

David was trawling through the internet at work when he came across a highly questionable picture. It was titled "The Russian Spice Girls" and featured a graphic of four extremely large women in a state of near undress. For some reason, this completely caught his funny bone. Knowing a friend who shared his specific sense of humor, he promptly sent the image over using the office fax machine, thinking nothing more of it.

About three hours later, a directive came down from on high telling David to report immediately to the General Management office on the fifth floor. In our office, you generally only went to the fifth floor to get promoted or fired.

David walked up and was promptly hauled over the coals. It turned out he had entered a single digit incorrectly on the fax machine. Instead of going to his friend, the transmission had landed directly in the office of South Africa's premier, most militant activist feminist and anti-pornographer.

She had absolutely seen red. Spotting David's name printed in the tiny automated header at the top of the page, she immediately bypassed regular channels and called the Chairman's Office of Old Mutual to lodge a vociferous, furious complaint.

The sheer statistical improbability of that specific wrong number was mind-boggling. David managed to keep his job, but he was severely and memorably chastised. The rest of us walked away with an important lesson: it is best not to fax anything risqué from the office, but if you absolutely must, you had better check the number fastidiously.

Family stories: Forgoing the marks

My dad had a story from his student days that he loved telling, one that completely captured my imagination as a kid.

Back when he was at dentistry school, the going was incredibly tough. Anatomy was notoriously the hardest course on the syllabus, and a massive part of surviving it involved grueling lab work and detailed dissections. The end-of-year anatomy exam was the ultimate hurdle, a high-stakes ordeal that combined a massive theory section with a live practical dissection.

Armed with both his pen and his scalpel, Dad walked into the exam hall. Because of the sheer volume of information required to pass, he, like almost everyone else in his class, had been forced to play the odds during his late-night study sessions. He had strategically anticipated what topics would come up and had simply been forced to skip a few sections to save time.

He was crushed when he flipped over the paper and read Question Three: Draw a detailed cross-section of the penis. It was one of the exact topics he had completely left out of his studies.

Whenever Dad reached this part of the story, his eyes would light up with a brilliant twinkle.

"I wasn't the only person in that exam hall," he would say, "who looked down at their scalpel, looked down at their lap, and thought, 'Mmmm, is it worth it?'"

Then, the twinkle in his eyes would grow even brighter, and he’d deliver the punchline he clearly cherished: "Isn't it a good thing I decided to forgo the marks, or you might never have been born!"

Memorable moments: The fastest slow hiker in the world

Of all the hikers in the world, I am fairly certain I possess the highest variable speed. Depending on the exact minute you look at me, I am both the fastest and the slowest hiker on the planet.

After I got divorced, I joined a number of local Hiking Meetup groups. It was a wonderful way to meet new people and get out into nature. Because hiking and photography are two of my greatest passions, I naturally wanted to combine them on these trips.

This created a very specific, exhausting rhythm.

Typically, I would loiter at the very back of the group, scanning the trail for a beautiful flower or a striking landscape. When I spotted something, I would stop entirely, spending five minutes setting up and capturing the perfect shot. Meanwhile, the rest of the group would keep walking, disappearing down the trail.

Realizing I was about to get left behind in the wilderness, I would then tuck my camera away and sprint like mad to catch up. I would fly down the path at breakneck speed until I finally reached the back of the pack. But the moment I caught my breath and spotted another interesting perspective, the cycle would repeat. I would drop anchor, take my photos, and then burst into another full-blown sprint.

I was caught in a constant loop of extreme loitering and high-speed chasing.

Fortunately, these days I hike with a regular bunch of mates who are far more tolerant of my photographic detours. The pace is much more balanced now, which is a massive relief—because as it turns out, sprinting a marathon in five-minute intervals gets incredibly tiring after a while.

Memorable moments: The carry-on carvers

In 2004, Ally and I went to Western Australia for a short holiday, knowing that we would be emigrating to the country sometime in the near future. We had a brilliant time exploring—cycling around Rottnest Island, wandering through Perth, sampling wine in the Margaret River, and walking among the massive trees in Shannon National Park.

During our travels, Ally decided to do a bit of shopping. She had been wanting a proper, high-quality set of kitchen knives for ages, and we happened to stumble across the absolute perfect find: a beautiful wooden board containing an array of incredibly sharp knives of varying sizes, ranging from a small fruit cutter all the way up to a giant carving knife.

After ten days of exploring, we reluctantly packed up our things, sad that the holiday was coming to an end, and drove to the airport. We successfully navigated the check-in desk, answered the standard security questions about packing our own bags, and watched our main luggage disappear down the conveyor belt.

Then, with our hand luggage in tow, we walked up to the security checkpoint.

As Ally’s bag rolled through the X-ray scanner, the entire terminal seemed to erupt. Alarms started flashing, sirens went off, and two massive airport security guards came running, descending on her bag with intense urgency. They snapped open the zipper, reached inside, and pulled it out.

There, gleaming viciously under the harsh airport fluorescent lighting, was Ally's brand-new wooden knife board, complete with its array of razor-sharp blades.

In the rush of leaving, Ally had packed her bags on absolute autopilot, completely forgetting that a collection of heavy-duty culinary weaponry probably shouldn't go in the overhead bin. The embarrassment was immediate and intense; we could feel the eyes of every single passenger in the terminal burning into the back of our necks.

Needless to say, the guards were not about to let us board a commercial flight with a giant carving knife. The set was promptly confiscated on the spot, and just like that, Ally’s years-long search for the perfect kitchen knives had to start all over again.

The black-and-white terror

 To tourists and outsiders, Australia is a terrifying gauntlet of lethal wildlife. They think we live in constant dread of the inland taipan, the world’s most venomous snake. They picture us checking our shoes for redback spiders or scanning the surf for box jellyfish that can inflict agonizing, fatal stings.

But if you ask any actual Australian what strikes pure, primal terror into our hearts, we will give you a very different answer: the humble magpie.

On paper, the magpie sounds harmless. It’s a medium-sized bird with striking black-and-white feathers and a beautiful, warbling song. But come springtime—better known locally as "swooping season"—this sweet-looking bird reveals a deeply aggressive dark side.

The reason for the hostility is simple: pure parental protectiveness. During their brief nesting window, proud magpie parents view anything moving within a hundred-meter radius as an imminent threat to their unhatched chicks. To defend their territory, they launch high-speed, tactical aerial assaults.

They don't just fly near you; they dive-bomb. Cyclists and pedestrians alike are targeted from behind without warning. With terrifying precision, the birds clip ears, peck at eyes, and slash at scalps, frequently drawing blood and leaving victims with nasty head wounds.

This annual reign of terror has forced Australians to develop some truly absurd survival strategies. Walk down any street in September and you’ll see commuters wearing ice-cream tubs on their heads or cyclists riding with dozens of plastic zip-ties poking out of their helmets like high-visibility mohawks. We look absolutely ridiculous, but desperation breeds innovation.

So let the tourists worry about the snakes in the bush and the sharks in the deep blue sea. True Australians know that the real danger doesn’t crawl, swim, or hide in the shadows—it waits patiently in a suburban gum tree, eyes locked onto your scalp, just waiting for you to walk past.