Family stories: 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.

Family stories: The invisible procession

In her later years, Gran’s driving slowed to a pace that could generously be described as “contemplative.”

One Saturday morning we were making our way along Claremont Main Road—normally a chaotic, bumper-to-bumper affair. Shops buzzing, taxis darting, people everywhere. Except, according to Gran, it wasn’t.

She peered out over the steering wheel and said, with genuine wonder, “Gosh… the road is almost empty. I wonder where all the cars are.”

I had a quiet look in the rearview mirror.

“They’re not lost, Gran,” I thought. “They’ve just… formed a respectful procession behind you.”

Attention is love

In many ways, Gran and Gramps could not have been more different. To my young eyes, Gramps was the undisputed hero—an extroverted, charismatic powerhouse who had been a respected amateur actor in his youth. He was the man who held sway as the MC at the annual bowls club, a storyteller who lived for the spotlight and the punchline. He was physically effusive, showering us with praise and affection. As a shy, introverted boy, I idolized him. I wanted to be that eloquent, that funny, and that confident.

In many ways, I took on his mantle. I found myself in school plays, losing myself in roles, and eventually becoming a skilled public speaker—though, unlike Gramps, my "performance" always came with a side of anxiety. I learned from him how to express admiration and how to hold a room with a well-timed story.

Gran, however, was the steady, background presence. She was never the center of attention and far less demonstrative with her affection. But if you got her into a one-on-one conversation, the world shifted.

Gran was an incredible listener. She didn't just hear you; she held what you said. She had a memory like a carefully curated archive; if you mentioned a small detail in passing, months later she would present you with a newspaper clipping perfectly relevant to that thought. Her love wasn't a loud performance; it was a quiet, non-judgmental space.

I’ve realized as I’ve grown older that love, in its purest form, is exactly that: spacious, affirming, and attentive. Attention is love.

While I idolized the "Toucher Tony" version of life when I was young, my appreciation for Gran has grown until she stands as a role model equal to Gramps. She is the bar I set for my own relationships. If I can show a genuine, loving interest in others the way she did, I know I’m offering something truly special.

I was remarkably lucky to have them both. They represent the two halves of my personality: the part of me that wants to tell a great story to a crowd, and the part of me that knows the most important thing I can ever give someone is my undivided, loving attention.

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!"

Family stories: The piano hiders

Once upon a time, many years ago, a party was held in a house crowded with teenagers. The game of the night was "Murder in the Dark." The lights were killed, the house was plunged into a predatory blackness, and as the "murderer" began to stalk the corridors, the guests scattered into the shadows, shrieking and scrambling for safety.

When the lights finally flickered back on, two complete strangers discovered they had chosen the exact same refuge: the cramped, dusty space beneath an old piano.

As they untangled themselves and looked across at one another, the impression was instantaneous. She was taken by his cheery smile and an optimism that seemed to vibrate off him; he was utterly smitten by her long, lithe, gorgeous legs—legs that he maintained, for the next sixty years, were the most beautiful in all of England.

Their connection was immediate, and four years later, they were married. What followed was a romance that survived the brutal separations of the Second World War and spanned well over half a century. They were, quite simply, inseparable.

In their later years, when Gran developed dementia and moved into a care facility, Gramps’ devotion only deepened. He visited her every single day, wheeling her out into the sunlight of the garden and holding her hand for hours on end. He was a man possessed by a single, noble mission: he was determined to outlive her, purely so he could ensure she was never alone.

Gran passed away at the age of eighty-two on September 16, 2002.

Following her death, Gramps’ own health began to falter, and he eventually moved into care himself. On September 15 of the following year, he looked at the nurses and made a quiet, certain announcement: "My darling is coming to get me."

He was right. The very next day—September 16, 2003—exactly one year to the day after Gran had passed, Gramps went to join her.

And I’ve often thought about that moment under the piano.  Two people, hiding in the dark, not knowing what was about to find them.

It turns out it wasn’t the murderer. 

It was a lifetime of love.

Gran and Gramp's passing away exactly one year apart

When, after being married to Gramps for over 60 years, Gran became sick and had to go into aged care, Gramps was absolutely determined to outlive her. He visited her everyday, wheel-chaired her out into the garden and held her hand for hours. It was heart-warming for everyone to witness; a true testament to their beautiful, soulful connection.

Gran passed away on 16 September 2002.

Gramps lived on, grateful that he had been there for Gran until her end.  He himself went into aged care with heart issues.

On the 15th September 2003, one day less than a year to the day that Gran passed, he mentioned to several of the staff that "Dorothy is coming to get me tomorrow."

The next day, 16 September 2003, exactly one year after Gran's passing, he himself passed away.

There love is a true inspiration to us all.