Memorable moments: The mile-high monologue

On a long-haul flight from Sydney to Cape Town, I settled in for some spiritual growth. I’d recently bought a book by an author I admire and was tucked into a middle seat, ready to dive deep into the text on my Kindle.

I hit the power button.

Immediately, a loud, authoritative, and terrifyingly clear robotic voice—not unlike the one used by David Hawkins—bellowed from the device:

"THE ENLIGHTENED SEX MANUAL—BY DAVID DEIDA—PAGE FOUR."

Somehow, the text-to-speech mode had been triggered. In the sudden silence of the cabin, it sounded less like a private reading and more like a public service announcement for the entire row.

I fumbled madly, my fingers turning into useless sausages as I clawed at the screen, desperate to kill the power before the "Enlightened" details of page five began broadcasting to my captive neighbors.

I went into that flight looking for spiritual transcendence; I left it wishing for physical disappearance.

Memorable moments: The pocket saboteur

I headed to the Apple Store with my MacBook Pro to solve a nagging technical glitch—the kind that makes you feel like an expert just for booking the appointment. I stood before the "Genius," ready to demonstrate the issue, only to hit a literal wall.

The trackpad was dead. The cursor wouldn't budge. I couldn't even log in.

The Genius was stymied. We tried every reset, every key command, and every diagnostic trick in the book. For twenty minutes, we stared at a frozen screen in a state of high-tech consternation. The mystery was absolute.

Then, my hand brushed against my trousers.

I felt a familiar, rounded bulge in my pocket. A memory flickered: “Oh yes, I brought my Bluetooth Apple Mouse.”

I reached in and pulled it out. Not only was it in my pocket, it was switched on. My thigh had been "clicking" and "scrolling" the entire time, effectively hijacking the computer and locking out the trackpad.

I looked at the mouse. I looked at the Genius. The "problem" was solved, but my dignity was officially beyond repair.

Memorable moments: Waverton to Cremorne via the scenic route from hell

There I was, gliding from Waverton toward Cremorne on a Lime e-bike like a silent, motorized god of the asphalt. I had a date with a cinema screen and the smug satisfaction of someone who wouldn't have to find parking. But then, I hit the invisible border of Mosman.

Suddenly, my high-tech steed didn’t just slow down; it went on strike. I glanced at my phone, expecting a low-battery warning, only to be greeted by a digital shrug: "E-bikes are prohibited in Mosman. Also, you cannot park here." The logic was staggering. I couldn’t ride it, but I couldn’t leave it. It had become a 25 kg paperweight that I was now legally obligated to escort. I spent the next kilometer performing a very sweaty, very loud "walk of shame" across the suburb, providing the local residents with a comprehensive masterclass in creative swearing. Why the GPS waited until I was deep in the "Forbidden Zone" to shut down is a mystery known only to God and cruel software engineers. By the time the motor finally hummed back to life, I’d missed the trailers, the opening scene, and any shred of my dignity.