Memorable moments: The shrubbery vault and the digital near-miss

I seem to have the luck of the Gods when it comes to robberies—a strange, recurring pattern where I lose everything, only for the universe to hand it back before the day is out.

In the early 90s, while living in Cape Town, I returned from university to find my house had been cleaned out. My TV, DVD player, and an assortment of other belongings had vanished. Burglary was common enough in Cape Town that I felt a weary sense of resignation as I called the police. When they arrived, I walked to the front gate to greet them. As I stood there, I noticed something odd poking out from behind a large bush in my garden. I investigated and, voila, there was all my stolen gear, neatly stashed behind the shrubbery. The robbers had clearly hidden it there for a quick pickup later, and my arrival had spooked them just in time.

Fast forward to 2010. I was asleep in bed when my dog, Mack, started barking. Half-asleep, I told him to hush and drifted back off. When I finally woke up, I was met with horror: my laptop was gone, along with a Tupperware container full of coins.

I was devastated. It wasn't just the hardware; I had spent many hours on an assignment for my English teaching course, and my entire collection of digital photos was on that machine. I felt that cold, hollow pit in my stomach that comes with losing irreplaceable history.

But then, I spotted a small black shape sticking out from under the desk.

The burglars—likely teenagers looking for quick cash—had unceremoniously yanked the cables and discarded my external hard drive. To them, it was just a plastic box; to me, it was my entire life’s work and every memory I’d captured. I had lost the shell, but the "soul" of my data had been left behind.

Memorable moments: The snail sabotage

During my first year at the University of Cape Town, I studied Botany and Zoology—a curriculum that required a fairly high tolerance for the internal workings of the animal kingdom. I remember one particularly humid afternoon in the lab; the entire class was hunched over workstations, each of us staring down a snail soaking in preserving liquid.

The task was daunting: we were expected to dissect and draw the snail's reproductive organs.

It was an exercise in extreme patience. To the naked eye, a snail is a simple creature, but once you get under the shell, it’s a labyrinth. It felt like we were untangling miles of incredibly fine, intricate tubing. The atmosphere in the lab was thick with the smell of formaldehyde and the sound of forty students holding their breath.

My classmate, Mark, was not having a good day. Mark didn't enjoy the clinical nature of dissection at the best of times, and the gastropod's "intricate tubing" was pushing him to the edge of his sanity. I could see the frustration radiating off him—the white knuckles, the furrowed brow, the mounting, silent rage.

Suddenly, the silence of the lab was shattered.

"Fuck this!" Mark roared.

Before anyone could react, he brought his fist down with the force of a sledgehammer, squarely onto his specimen. The snail didn't just break; it exploded into a thousand tiny, preserved fragments across his desk.

Without a second glance at the wreckage, Mark stood up, shouldered his bag, and looked straight at the professor. "Prof," he said, his voice trembling with a strange mix of fury and liberation, "give me zero for this. I just don't care right now."

He turned and walked out of the lab, leaving the rest of us sitting in stunned silence, still clutching our scalpels and trying to find the beginning of a mile of tubing.

Memorable moments: The projectile presentation

In 1992, for my final year of Marketing at the University of Cape Town, my friend Rory and I were assigned a presentation on the dark arts of merchandising. We wanted to be legends. We planned to reveal the "tricks of the trade"—how grocery stores put the bakery at the back to force you through the aisles, and how cereal boxes feature characters whose eyes are mathematically angled to lock onto a passing child’s gaze.

Since Google Images didn't exist, I spent days as a guerrilla photographer, snapping high-quality evidence of impulse-buy racks and strategically placed chocolates. We centered our entire grade on these visuals.

The day arrived. We set up my dad’s analog slide projector—a beast of a machine that required manual loading. We were so rushed we skipped a full technical rehearsal, but I was confident. I stood at the front, took a deep breath, and clicked the remote for the first slide.

CLACK-WHIZZZ!

Instead of appearing on the screen, the first slide popped up like a piece of overactive toast and went flying through the air, soaring over the heads of the third row.

Stunned, I pressed the button again. CLACK-WHIZZZ! The second slide followed suit, embarking on its own solo flight across the lecture hall. Rory scrambled to the back, frantically wrestling with the machine, but it had transformed from a projector into a high-velocity catapult.

Doing a visual-heavy presentation without a single image is a special kind of hell. I stuttered through descriptions of "imaginary" cereal boxes while my hard-earned research lay scattered on the floor among the feet of my peers.

Being a student with very high standards, I was devastated. But as we walked out, Rory just shrugged and chuckled and said, "Shit happens, Graeme. No one died."

Rory was right of course. Decades later, the grade is forgotten, but the image of my hard-earned research whizzing through the air like a plastic bird never fails to bring a chuckle. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but in my experience, it often just makes you funnier. Even if it takes a few years to fully appreciate the joke.

Memorable moments: The lasagna lie

During university, I was desperate to impress a girl I really liked. I decided the best way to her heart was through her stomach, despite the minor detail that I didn't actually know how to cook.

I briefly considered passing off a flame-grilled chicken from Coimbra as my own, but settled instead on a "foolproof" plan: a Woolworth’s ready-made chicken lasagna. I figured if I kept it in the oven long enough to look authentic, she’d never know.

The evening began perfectly. Soft music was playing, candles were flickering, and I pulled the lasagna out with a flourish, making sure she heard the "hard work" I’d put in all day. We sat down, looked into each other's eyes, and tucked in simultaneously.

Horror of horrors. As my knife hit the center, there was a distinct, metallic crackle. The lasagna wasn't just undercooked; the middle was a solid block of ice. I was officially busted. As I sheepishly retreated to the microwave to perform a high-voltage resurrection on our dinner, I tried to pivot to damage control.

"Champagne?" I offered, grabbing a bottle to lighten the mood.

I popped the cork. In a display of physics that would have baffled a scientist, the cork ricocheted off the wall, banked off the ceiling, and flew back with pinpoint accuracy to strike my date directly in the back of the head.

I went in trying to be a romantic lead; I left as a man who had nearly frozen his date’s digestive system and then physically assaulted her with a grape-based projectile.

Memorable moments: The smouldering scalp

By eighteen, I was already losing my hair. My father was entirely bald, and seeing my future reflected in his shiny scalp every day filled me with a quiet, obsessive panic. I was convinced that no woman would ever look twice at a man whose hairline was in such a rapid retreat.

Then Oliver moved in.

He was my age and, remarkably, even balder than I was. But Oliver didn’t look like a man in despair; he was happy, confident, and had a gorgeous girlfriend who clearly adored him. To me, he was a living miracle.

One evening, we had a heart-to-heart. I confessed my anxieties and told him how much I admired his "Zen" attitude toward his reflection. Oliver leaned back and gave me a wry smile.

"It wasn't always this easy," he admitted. "A while back, I was sitting in the back of the car behind my mum and dad. My father’s perfectly bald head was right there in front of me, staring me in the face. I looked at it with such focused, concentrated vehemence that I felt like a human magnifying glass. I honestly expected his scalp to start smouldering right then and there."

The image of Oliver trying to set his father’s head on fire with the sheer power of his "balding-rage" was too much. I started to laugh. Then he started to laugh. Soon, we were both doubled over, gasping for air in one of those rare, soul-cleansing fits of hysteria.

In that moment, the weight of years of obsession simply evaporated. A few months later, I met Ally, and the issue of my hair—or lack thereof—simply ceased to exist.

It turns out the best treatment for male-pattern baldness isn't a lotion or a pill—it's a housemate with a shiny head and a funny story to tell. 

Memorable moments: The ballroom bone-breaker

When I joined the Ballroom Dancing Society at the University of Cape Town, I was the definition of a latecomer. The rest of the class already knew their quickstep from their tango, while I was just trying to look like I belonged in the room.

Our teacher, Maureen Shargey—a tiny, high-voltage live wire—announced that today’s menu featured "Rock n’ Roll Throws." She demonstrated a move that involved deep knee bends, a heavy lift, and a series of high-speed rotations.

"Find a partner!" she barked.

There was a stampede. When the dust settled, I was left standing with the only other person without a pair: a girl who was a solid six feet tall, big-boned, and built like a professional rugby lock. I looked at her, then at my own knees, and began a silent, frantic mantra: Bend at the knees. Bend at the knees.

Maureen gave the signal. I dove in, bent deep, and—to my absolute shock—managed a heroic lift. I swung her down toward my left leg.

CRACK.

The sound was like a gunshot in the hall. My leg went instantly numb. Oh God, I thought, I’ve snapped my femur. The bone is going to be sticking out. This is the end.

I dropped my partner, who went sliding across the polished floor like a human curling stone, and collapsed in a heap, clutching my thigh and bracing for the sight of a compound fracture. A worried crowd gathered. Maureen looked on in horror.

I gingerly reached into my pocket to assess the damage to my limb. My fingers found something jagged. I pulled it out and held it up for the room to see.

It wasn't my leg. It was my favorite plastic comb, snapped perfectly in two.

My dignity was in splinters, but at least I could still walk home.

Memorable moments: The remote betrayal

During my university years, my Cape Town housemate Oliver and I shared Willow Road with Andre. To us, Andre was ancient—at least thirty-five—and he spent his post-divorce life cycling through girlfriends with the speed of a professional sprinter. He was determined to be the one doing the dumping, often juggling three oblivious women at once.

Naturally, Oliver (a serial prankster) and I decided it was time to humble him.

Oliver told Andre he’d acquired a "juicy" adult video that had to be seen to be believed. Andre, ever the connoisseur, was immediately intrigued. Oliver started the film, handed Andre the remote, and gave a stern warning: "Don't fast-forward, or you'll miss the best part."

Oliver then "slipped away" to the bathroom, and I retreated to the kitchen to "make coffee."

Right on cue, Oliver’s sister and her friend used a spare key to barge into the lounge. Panic-stricken, Andre hammered the "Stop" button. Nothing happened. He hammered it again. Still nothing. We had, of course, removed the batteries.

In a desperate, last-ditch effort to save his reputation, Andre launched himself over the coffee table like a heat-seeking missile. That is exactly how the girls found him: sprawled on his stomach, frantically stabbing at the TV’s manual buttons, while a symphony of very loud, very explicit "adult antics" played out directly above his head.

Andre may have been a master at juggling girlfriends, but he was no match for a TV that refused to take orders.

Pure nostalgia: UCT Ballroom Dancing

My favourite memories

• Joining in my 2nd or 3rd year of university.
• Maureen Shargey, our indomitable teacher, a live wire of wonderful energy. She was so awesome.
• All the fantastic dances we learned including Walz, Viennese Walz, Foxtrot, Quick Step, Rock n Roll, Jive, Cha Cha and Lambada (dirty dancing).
• Doing some private lessons with Maureen and two lovely fellow students ( whose names I can't remember). 
• Learning rock n roll throws where we had to throw up our partner up into the air and then bring her down onto the knee. "Bend from the knees" Maureen said!
• The wonderful socials that we had where we got to practice our steps.
• The Viennese Ball that was held in the main hall of UCT. I went to two balls; the first with the girl I did lessons with (a medical student who I was so attracted to!). And the second with Ally.
• Meeting Moira and going with her to a dance at Robben Island.
• Dancing with a girl in a sexy cat suit at a social and then discovering she was Rayburn's girlfriend!
• Nicola taking up ballroom dancing and becoming extremely good at it.
• After UCT, taking up Ceroc dancing, taught by Amanda and Johnathon.

Nostalgic visit to University of Cape Town (UCT)

I spent a wonderful couple of hours walking around UCT, taking photos of the places and buildings I frequented in my days there.  It was a nostalgic walk down memory lane. 

Jamison Hall and steps

Green covered buildings

Botany Building

This was the building where I spent much of my first year when I studied Botany and Zoology.

Leslie Building

This was the building where we had most of our Business Science lectures.

Nostalgic music from my 20's

Farewell to Willow Road

Well, we've sold Willow Road, our Cape Town house, and it's kind of like the closing of a chapter in our lives. Home from 1990 to 2000, the place is full of special memories.


Some Highlights

• Braais on the balcony
• The view from the balcony and the views of the mountain
• Living with a range of zany, wonderful housemates like Dain, Andre, Oliver, Ben, Eleda, Peter the plumber, Peter the paramedic, Shirly, Russel, Colleen and Rory
• Romancing Ally (including suprise Chinese dinner in my room)
• Sleeping out on the balcony
• Setting the house up with Ally in 1998 when we got back from overseas
• The walk in the mountain above the house
• Strolls to nearby Kirstenbosch
• Feta, the cat
• Pikiswe, our domestic helper (ah, those were the days!)
• Judge and Niki, Eleda's pugs
• Studying for university exams with Julian
• Summer holidays
• Some great parties including my 21st birthday party
• Some fantastic dinner parties
• A couple of family Xmases
• Watching South Africa win the 1994 world cup in the lounge (ecstacy).
• Watching South Africa losing to the Australians in the world cup cricket (run, Alan, run!)
• Lots and lots of cars outside and the dispair of the poor neighbours
• Gerald and the Edwards
• Silvia, my silver monza
• Waking up to the automatic irrigation system at 6 am in the morning
• The wild garden
• Walks up the hill at night to see the amazing views of the suburbs and check out other houses
• The chocabloc garage
• Furniture olympics

Graduation at University of Cape Town

My graduation from University of Cape Town

 Graduating with a Business Science specialising in Marketing.

Grahamstown Festival