Memorable moments: Dad’s petrol rebellions

My dad was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a reckless rule-breaker. In almost every arena of life, he was a steady, methodical man who respected boundaries, followed instructions, and kept well within the lines.

Except when it came to petrol.

The moment volatile hydrocarbons were involved, a rogue, undercover operative emerged from inside the mild-mannered dentist.

Every year, our family embarked on an annual holiday to Eight Bells, a lovely guest farm nestled in the mountains near Mossel Bay. The ritual always began in the pitch black of five in the morning, loading into the car while the rest of the neighborhood was fast asleep.

About halfway into the six-hour journey, with the fuel gauge hovering uncomfortably near empty, Dad would execute a maneuver worthy of a Cold War thriller. At the exact same undisclosed spot along the route every year, he would peel off the highway and pull deep into a concealed clearing out of sight of passing traffic.

While Mum unpacked breakfast—a Tupperware tub of cold sausages and pungent hard-boiled eggs whose sulfurous aroma I dreaded—Dad got down to business.

He would cast a furtive, conspiratorial glance across the empty veld to ensure no police patrols were lurking, pop the boot, and hoist out a heavy jerry can of illicit fuel. Under South Africa’s strict oil embargo and rationing laws of the era, hoarding and transporting private reserves of fuel like this was entirely illegal. Dad would place a funnel into the neck of the fuel tank and pour the bootleg petrol directly into the car, his eyes darting toward the tarmac like an international smuggler topping up between borders.

The dangerous streak didn't end on the highway; it was an essential fixture of our weekend family braais.

Dad cooked over a colossal half-barrel he had personally sliced and welded from a full steel drum in his workshop. His fire-building was a masterclass in structural engineering: he laid out thick logs in an immaculate, hollow rectangle, meticulously crisscrossing the timber to create an architectural chimney.

Any ordinary backyard cook might reach for dry twigs, pine cones, or scrunched-up newspaper to coax the fire to life. Not Dad.

He would stride over with his beloved container of petrol and generously douse the entire timber structure in fuel until the logs were thoroughly soaked. Next came the choreography: he would take precisely two measured paces backward, strike a match, and flick it into the hollow core.

WOOSH!

It was less an ignition than a localized sonic boom. The air would displace with a tremendous roar of heat and light, instantly engulfing the drum in a towering inferno of orange flame. The logs were roaring within a split-second.

Standing before the blast, his eyebrows intact and the heat reflecting in his green eyes, Dad would wear an expression of supreme, quiet satisfaction. It was as though the secret stuntman buried deep within his soul had been granted his ritual fix, leaving him thoroughly appeased and ready to return to his peaceful, risk-averse life until the next tank needed filling.

Memorable moments: The anatomy of fragility

There is a tired old playground idiom that tells men to "Stop being  a pussy and grow some balls." As an anatomical metaphor for toughness, it could hardly be more inaccurate. The female anatomy is engineered with enough elasticity and sheer physical resilience to pass a human child the size of a small volleyball into the world. Testicles, by comparison, are ridiculously exposed, unarmored liability zones where the slightest misdirected breeze can reduce a grown adult to a whimpering puddle.

Like almost every man, I have had my fair share of painful education on the subject.

During my school rugby days, a couple of mistimed tackles connected directly where they shouldn't have, producing that hollow, nauseating ache that radiates straight into the solar plexus. Worse still were two distinct occasions in my life when I managed to catch skin in a trouser zipper.

It is a uniquely primal form of terror. The second time it happened, the teeth were so hopelessly snagged that I had to take a pair of scissors and carefully cut the shorts right off my body just to survey the damage. In those desperate, cold-sweat moments of entrapment, the frantic male brain invariably throws up a wild, unhinged question: Should I just yank it?

The answer is always an emphatic, horrified no.

Yet my personal mishaps paled in comparison to what happened to my dad when I was seventeen.

Dad was out in the garden cutting down an overgrown tree. In an effort to get a cleaner cutting angle, he climbed up and braced himself across a high branch. His footing gave way. He slipped off the perch, dropping hard and straddling the branch beneath him with the full momentum of his body weight—compounded by the heavy, steel weight of a petrol chainsaw landing directly between his legs.

It was pure agony. It wasn’t just a momentary shock, either; the trauma was so severe that the injury haunted him for months afterward, requiring strong prescription painkillers just to get through a normal day.

Years later, while chatting with a good friend who had given birth to two children, the subject of bodily suffering came up. Operating on a generous helping of male ignorance, I floated the theory that both sexes possessed their own equivalent pinnacle of agony: women had childbirth, and men had a direct blow to the groin.

She looked at me with withering amusement.

"Hah!" she scoffed. "You try getting kicked in the balls non-stop every two minutes for ten straight hours, Graeme. Then you might have a rough idea of what women actually go through."

I shut my mouth and conceded the point immediately.

Memorable moments: The backstreet pick-up

For most of our youth, Dad was decidedly, magnificently uncool.

His everyday wardrobe consisted of aggressively sensible button-downs paired with high socks pulled taut against knee-length, unfashionable shorts. But his absolute crowning glory of uncoolness was his fleet of cars.

He owned two vehicles: a battered red Volkswagen Beetle and an aging, scuffed VW Type 3 Variant station wagon. Today, vintage Beetles are prized counter-culture icons, but back then, an old red Bug merely functioned as a bright beacon drawing unwanted attention to your total lack of street cred.

The Variant was worse. It was painted a truly dreadful, unappetizing mustard yellow, covered in scratches, and treated entirely as an industrial workhorse. Dad used it primarily to haul his heavy model locomotives and track gear back and forth from his beloved train club. To him, the aesthetics were utterly irrelevant. Being naturally gifted with tools and mechanics, he kept both engines purring in immaculate mechanical order. As long as the pistons fired sweetly, he saw zero reason to waste good money replacing a car just because the exterior looked like it had survived a minor skirmish.

My sister Jo, however, was in the full throes of teenage image preservation. The mustard Variant was her ultimate mortal enemy.

Whenever Dad came to collect us after the final bell, Jo laid down strict tactical protocols: under no circumstances was the yellow monstrosity permitted to breach the school gates. Dad was politely instructed to park two blocks away in a discreet side alley, allowing her to slink out to the car under cover of relative anonymity.

Dad never took offense. He simply took his post in the backstreet, engine ticking over quietly, perfectly amused by her youthful paranoia.

Then came his fiftieth birthday—and with it, an astonishing, wholesale metamorphosis.

It was as if a switch flipped overnight. Dad grew a full, distinguished beard that immediately gave his face immense warmth, gravitas, and character. He ditched the drab conservative palette and started striding around in vibrant, brightly patterned short-sleeve shirts—pioneering the vibrant aesthetic years before Nelson Mandela made the Madiba shirt a global fashion statement.

To complete the transformation, he inherited some money from his own father and promptly traded the dusty air-cooled fleet for a sleek, second-hand BMW.

In one glorious leap, our quiet, sock-pulling dad had become the coolest man in Cape Town.

The irony, of course, was cruel in its timing. Jo would have given anything to lean against that gleaming BMW right outside the main gates as crowds of schoolmates walked past. But by the time Dad finally arrived at peak cool, her school days were behind her.

Memorable moments: Problem solved

Sharon, Lydia, and I met up in Dee Why for what was meant to be a brisk coastal walk. The weather, however, had other ideas, so we spent the first part of the morning sheltering from the rain over warm drinks and long chats at Girdler's Cafe.

Eventually, the downpour eased enough for us to venture out along the lagoon. We hadn't walked far when we spotted a lone, incapacitated seagull lying flat on the wet sand.

Lydia, practical and eager to keep moving, was keen to press on. Sharon and I, however, couldn't bear the thought of leaving the poor creature there to suffer in the cold. We pulled out a phone and rang WIRES to report the distressed bird.

Instead of dispatching an immediate rescue crew, WIRES escalated the call straight to the Department of Primary Industries’ Animal Diseases division, suspecting it might be carrying avian flu. The operator gave us strict instructions: under no circumstances touch the bird, leave it precisely where it lay, and immediately complete a detailed biosecurity form they would text to my phone.

We turned back to continue our loop, but moments later, a follow-up message arrived requesting an urgent photograph of the suspect specimen.

Lydia and I picked up the pace to head back to the spot, while Sharon strolled along a little behind us. When Lydia and I reached the site on the sandbank, government protocols were rendered instantly obsolete. Two large crows were perched directly on top of the seagull, methodically ripping into it. The bird was already half-eaten.

We turned around and walked back toward Sharon, who was just catching up.

"The problem is solved!" I announced with genuine, unbridled relief.

Sharon’s face lit up with wide-eyed, delighted amazement. "It’s okay?! It flew away?!"

"No," I replied cheerily. "It’s been eaten by crows."

To my mind, it was a total victory: the seagull’s suffering was officially over, and nature had dealt with the backlog far quicker than any government agency ever could. Sharon, on the other hand, stood there looking utterly horrified, staring at me as though I had personally invited the crows to lunch.

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

Related posts

• Working in Duxford

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: 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 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: 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 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.

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 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.

Memorable moments: The 165-minute hostage situation

I went to see a highly acclaimed Italian movie with my close, elderly friend Sue. The critics had raved about it, promising a masterpiece that easily justified its daunting two-hour-and-forty-five-minute runtime.

Within the first ten minutes, however, the illusion shattered. I knew instantly that this was going to be a long, painfully tedious experience. The film didn't resonate with me at all, and every fiber of my being wanted to stand up, walk out of the theater, and find a good cup of coffee.

But I hesitated. Knowing how much Sue generally loved art-house cinema, I couldn't bear the thought of spoiling her afternoon or dragging her away from something she might be deeply enjoying. So, I gritted my teeth, sank into my seat, and prepared to endure nearly three hours of pure, unadulterated tedium for the sake of friendship.

Finally, the credits rolled, the lights came up, and we made our escape. As we walked out of the dark theater and into the bright afternoon sunlight, my mind was racing, trying to figure out exactly how honest I should be without sounding ungrateful.

Before I could utter a word, Sue turned to me and let out a huge sigh.

"Oh my word," she exclaimed. "I'll be honest, I did not enjoy that at all. So tedious! I would have walked out pretty early on. Did you get anything out of it?"

We had spent almost three hours trapped in a mutual hostage situation, each suffering in absolute silence solely to protect the other person's assumed happiness. It was a hilarious reminder that sometimes, the greatest act of friendship isn't polite endurance—it's just being the first one to admit that the movie is terrible.

Memorable moments: The orthodontic awakening

When I was thirteen, I went through the standard teenage rite of passage: getting orthodontic braces. Periodically, I had to visit the clinic to have them tightened. For most teenagers, this is a dreaded chore, notorious for causing days of dull ache and intense discomfort.

Naturally, my parents were utterly baffled by my reaction to these appointments. Instead of dreading them, I always got incredibly excited. I counted down the days, practically leaping into the car when it was time to go. They probably thought they had raised the most resilient, stoic teenager in South Africa.

They wouldn't have been surprised if they had known the truth.

My mum would drop me off outside the clinic, and I would head upstairs with an uncharacteristic spring in my step. The magic began the moment the orthodontic nurse came to fetch me from the waiting room. She was a gorgeous, friendly blonde who always made a point of asking me how school was going, treating me with a warmth that completely disarmed my thirteen-year-old self.

The highlight, however, was the actual procedure. I would lie back in the chair, and she would lean closely over me with her tightening tool to adjust the wires, her ample bosom just inches from my dazzled gaze. For a teenager right at the precipice of waking up to the world of romance and attraction, having this lovely woman so close  was absolute heaven.

To her, it was just a routine, innocent Tuesday morning at the office. To me, it was a profound, thrilling introduction to the opposite sex. The physical discomfort of the tightening didn't matter at all; the scenery more than made up for it. It remains one of my funniest memories of growing up—a time when a painful dental adjustment somehow became the most anticipated event on my social calendar.

Memorable moments: The voice of the reef

In 2005, I traveled to Dahab in Egypt to complete a scuba diving course in the Red Sea. It was an extraordinary environment, but the true highlight arrived on the second day of our training when our group descended to a depth of twenty metres.

The coral reef was absolutely spectacular—a true wonderland of vibrant color and marine life. As we glided through the water, I was overcome by a profound sense of wonder and peace. I felt entirely present, experiencing a transcendent, spiritual moment of feeling completely at one with everything around me.

When I practice meditation at home, I often use a soft, humming "om" to anchor myself firmly in the present moment. Wrapped in the silence of the deep sea and filled with a sudden desire to express that connection, I let out a gentle, low "om" into my regulator as we swam alongside the reef.

After thirty minutes of exploring, our group finally ascended and exited the water. The moment we pulled off our masks, one of the girls from our group turned to the rest of us with wide, amazed eyes.

"My God," she gasped, "did you hear the coral humming?! I've never heard anything like it in my life!!"

I froze, caught in a wave of sudden embarrassment, and decided it was best to say absolutely nothing. To this very day, she is likely out there somewhere in the world, completely convinced that the coral reefs of the Red Sea sing a beautiful, spiritual song to those who dive deep enough to listen.

Memorable moments: A bright misconception

On our flight back from Zululand to Cape Town, a thick cloud of fearful anticipation hung over the trip. We had heard reports of a massive storm hitting the Cape, and we were braced for a wild, bumpy landing that would be a world away from the 34-degree sunshine we had left behind in Durban.

About thirty minutes before our scheduled arrival, I looked out the cabin window and saw nothing but brilliant, golden light. Relieved and confused, I turned to Antony and my sister, Jo.

"Wow, it's still sunny!" I exclaimed. "I would have thought it would be getting dark and stormy by now."

Antony looked at me with a mix of amusement and pity. "Yes, Graeme," he said gently, "that's probably because we are still above the clouds."

Sure enough, as the pilot began our descent and we dipped below that white, fluffy floor, the world transformed. The bright gold vanished, replaced by an ominous, dark grey. We landed safely in the end, but I left the plane with a newfound appreciation for the fact that just because you can see the sun doesn't mean the storm isn't waiting for you just a few thousand feet below.

Memorable moments: The Cradle Mountain cookbook

In 2015, I went on a road trip to Tasmania with a group of friends. It was a trip defined by incredible landscapes and some of the best hiking in the country, but the moment that stuck with me most happened far away from the trailheads.

We had stopped off at the Cradle Mountain gift shop, browsing through the usual souvenirs, when I stumbled upon a book that stopped me in my tracks. It was a cookbook entirely dedicated to the culinary preparation of fresh "road krill."

Tasmania is famous for its abundant wildlife, but that also means a tragic number of marsupials end up as casualties on the road. This book took that reality to its most extreme, "redneck" conclusion. It featured full-color recipes for dishes that sounded like they belonged in a dark-comedy fever dream: Wombat Soufflé and Roast Rack of Kangaroo.

But the detail that truly killed me was the suggestion for presentation. The author recommended that, for the ultimate local touch, one should use echidna quills as kebab spikes.

Whether the book was a genuine guide to bush survival or a brilliant piece of performance art designed to mess with tourists, I couldn't say. But as I stood there in the shadow of one of Australia's most beautiful mountains, looking at a recipe for a marsupial soufflé, I realized that Tasmania doesn't just embrace its "out-there" reputation—it marinades it and serves it on a spike.

Memorable moments: Love, sweet love, and a little squirt of soap

I live right next to Brennan Park in Waverton, which is a beautiful stretch of green, but its true crowning glory isn’t the trees or the harbor views—it’s the toilet.

When friends from overseas visit, I don’t just take them to the Opera House; I take them on a formal tour of the public amenities. It is a masterclass in automated hospitality. You walk in, and the door glides shut with a soft, futuristic click. Then, a warm, friendly voice fills the small space: "Welcome and enjoy your experience here!"

Before you can even process the invitation to "enjoy" a public restroom, the soundtrack begins. It doesn't just play elevator music; it plays the classics, including the theme of "What the World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love." There you are, in a public park in Sydney, experiencing a moment of profound, melodic encouragement in the most unlikely of settings.

When the "experience" is complete, the voice returns with a gentle reminder: "Thank you for using me. Please wash your hands." It then punctuates the request by dispensing a perfect, polite little squirt of soap.

I love Brennan Park, but I love that toilet even more. It is a rare and wonderful thing to find a piece of technology that seems genuinely invested in your well-being. In a world that can often feel cold and mechanical, this little booth stands as a beacon of programmed sincerity—offering music, hygiene, and a small, automated reminder that what the world really needs is a little more care and a clean set of hands.

Memorable moments: The longest wait

A friend of mine once shared a story from a solo trip to Thailand that serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of travel-induced optimism. He had gone for a massage and, finding the masseuse quite attractive, soon found himself in a state of unmistakable physical arousal.

The woman looked down, looked back at him, and asked a direct, three-word question: "You want wank?"

Being single and on holiday in a far-flung land, he didn't take long to weigh his options. He figured, “Why not? I’m miles from home, I’m unattached—let's go with the flow.” He gave her a nod of consent.

She smiled and immediately left the room. My friend lay there, his heart racing with anticipation, assuming she had gone to fetch some oil or perhaps to prepare for the "service."

She was gone for a surprisingly long time. He waited in the quiet room, his expectations mounting with every passing minute of the silence. Finally, after a significant delay, the door opened and she stepped back inside. She looked at him with a pleasant, professional curiosity and asked:

"You have good wank?"

It turned out she wasn't offering her services; she was simply offering him the room for a bit of "private time" while she went off to have a tea break. He had spent ten minutes in a state of high-alert romantic anticipation, while she had simply been waiting for him to finish the job himself.