Memorable moments: The logistical symphony

One evening, Ivor and I went to watch his little daughter perform at a school music evening. It was one of those classic parental milestones, but the physics of the event were spectacularly skewed.

When it was her turn, she appeared on stage looking tiny and delicate—followed by an adult lugging a cello that was quite clearly three times her size. It looked less like a musical instrument and more like a large wooden wardrobe she was expected to wrestle into submission.

What followed was a masterclass in slow-motion preparation. It took a solid twenty minutes of intense focus just to get the logistics right: the chair was adjusted, the music stand was maneuvered, the endpin was stabbed into the floor, and she spent an eternity shifting into the "exactly right" anatomical position to accommodate the giant mahogany beast.

Finally, after the Herculean setup was complete, she took a breath, gave what seemed like exactly three deliberate strokes of the bow, and... it was over. The performance lasted about thirty seconds. The ratio of "preparation" to "actual music" was mathematically absurd.

But she was absolutely adorable, and despite the comical brevity of the piece, Ivor was beaming. He was the picture of the proud father, unmoved by the fact that the setup had taken forty times longer than the symphony.

Watching Ivor that night, I realized that pride has nothing to do with the length of the performance. It’s about the twenty minutes of watching someone you love negotiate a truce with a giant wooden beast for the sake of three perfect notes.

Memorable moments: The two little waves

I met my wonderful friend, Ivor, during my university years while attending a youth group. He quickly became one of my closest confidants—one of those rare people in whose presence you can be entirely, unapologetically yourself.

Our relationship possessed a beautiful depth; we spent countless hours in those "putting the world to right" conversations that only seem to happen in the quiet intensity of youth. But we also shared a relentless sense of fun and a love for those deep, gasping belly laughs that leave you breathless.

In fact, we developed a term for our friendship that I still think is the perfect descriptor: "Two Little Waves."

In physics, there is a magical effect called constructive interference. When two small waves overlap in just the right way—at the exact right frequency and phase—they don’t just pass each other by. Instead, they merge and amplify, suddenly transforming into one massive, powerful wave.

That was Ivor and me. On our own, we were just two students navigating life, but when we got together, the interference was purely constructive. We didn't just add our energies together; we multiplied them.

Suddenly, two little waves became a swell of double the fun and double the hilarity. It’s a metaphor that epitomizes our bond to a T.

These days, he’s in Cape Town and I’m in Sydney, living separate lives on opposite sides of the world. Many months pass between seeing each other.

And yet within within minutes of reconnecting, it’s back. The same rhythm. The same laughter. Two little waves coming back into perfect alignment.

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.