Looking after Nushi

 Shushann had to go out for the day so I dropped by her home in Coogee at lunchtime to give Nushi some company. We went for a lovely walk to the park where I met lots of other lovely dogs and their owners.

How cute is this little guy!

Favourite meals

Food is a gift and should be treated reverentially - romanced and ritualized and seasoned with memory.  Chris Bohjalian

2025

Cape Town

• Cherries
• Greek restaurant: Octopus
• Peanut butter smoothie at Woodside
• Red Curry for Afrikaburn
• Cattle Baron Madagascar 300g fillet x 2
• Chicken and Prawn Curry with lychees (With Rory at Millers Thumb)
• Chocolate brownies
• Mum's Gammon and mustard sauce
• Wedgwood nougat
• Chorizo and pineapple pizza at St James
• Roasted vegetables at Hussar Grill
• Brandon's roast chicken with 6 vegetables
• Mums fridge cheesecake
• Jo's amazing salads including Thai salad
• Flame grilled chicken
• Chicken Sosaties from Checkers
• Salad and veg bowl in Kalk Bay with Sam
• Jo's marmite scones
• Braai buffet at Russell's board game friend's home
• Bacha Coffee almond and chocolate croissants at Singapore airport
• Naked Bowl at Dee Why
• Kirsten's Kick Ass Icecream

Sydney

• Octopus at Greek restaurant
• Turkish Grill in Newtown
• Roast pork in Blackheath after camping
• Lemon and rasberry magnum with white chocolate
• Pistachio donut at Chatswood
• Mushroom and avo on sourdough in Hornsby
• Croissant
• Pasta and stag chilly with cheese in Warrenbungles
• Lamb shank pie for $12.50 !!
• Fish Bowl Spicy salmon
• Michal's goulash cooked on the camp fire.
• Sausages and garlic butter when camping.
• Lebanese lamb shish
• Frozen yoghurt and nuts 

2024

• Raspberry tart @ Harrods, Doha
• Tender beef on Sylvia Earle
• Double thick peanut butter shake (Simons Town)
• Cattle Baron Fillet Madagascar (Cape Town)
• Frozen orange and mango at top of Devils's Peak (thanks Brandon!)
• Kirsten's Kick Ass Icecream: Cherry
• Kalk Bay ice cream: Cinnamon, ginger, cherry
• Salad at Third Rail during fast
• Kolfi with dried fruit (Grace of India)
• Roast chicken meal (Dom in Carcoar)
• Black cherries
• Balmoral grilled sea food (octopus, calamari, prawns)
• Frozen yoghurt with nuts and white chocolate
• Plougman's lunch in the Blue Mountains (Thank you Michelle and Petros)
• The Little Snail in Pyrmont: Kanagaroo steak
• Fish Bowl salmon
• Thai Beef Salad at the pub after tennis near St Peters station

2023

• Chocolate pannacotta & flake
• Banana and mango smoothy
• Mushroom on toast in Orange with Tina and Dom
• Take sushi with Tina, Dom, Shushann (x2)
• Passion Fruit cheesecake (Bamboo Buddha)
• Messina Icecream (Macedamia Nut Crunch, Lychee & Coconut)
• Steak final night Buenos Airies
• Roast chicken in Airfryer with Martin's seasoning
• Almond nougat (Cape Town)
• Duck, Pork Belly, Steak tapas at Silk (Cape Town)
• Peanut butter smoothie (Nepal & Woodside)
• Lassies in Kathmandu
• Mango and yoghurt
• Bowral hot donuts
• Prawn dumplings at home

2022

• Portuguese Charcoal chicken with Srini after hike
• Messina icecream
• Jo's coffee and rum & raisin icecream
• Thick chocolate milkshake in Cape Town
• Eat Greek prawn wrap after Coastal Track walk
• Cape Town meat & fish: Cattlebaron steak, Ocean Basket, Ribs at market
• Xmas feasts: Ruth: Duck, pork belly, chicken, amazing potato bake Xmas day at Shalow: Lemon curd trifle, turkey

2021

• Lamb after Dune
• Botanica breakfast bowl
• Four Cheese Toastie at The Flying Bear
• Love.Fish with Elna to celebrate new year

2019

• Prawn soup  (The Botanica)
• Ko Pla (Thai) with Brendan and Eva
• Ginger drink   (The Botanica)
• Oven roasted vegetables with smoked almonds (my speciality)
• Hummus and Mushrooms  (Grumpy Baker)
• Monkfish with Chris, Xenia, Christina, Shushan
• Meal at Devil’s Pools
• Jo’s rum and raisin ice-cream  

2016

• Ape Crepe & Malaysian Toast
• Botanica Quiche
• Pizza in Wilderness: Fig, blue cheese, ham

2015

• The Edge of the Bay. Seafood chowder, scollop liguine, choc mousse.
• Lamb salad with Liza (Jagos on Miller)
• Bondi Pizza (Parramatta lamb pizza and prawn and chorizo)
• Liz meal. Cheese, salami, tomato and onion pastry, goulash, sticky date pud
• Roast chicken, pumpkin, potato (made by Matt and Shamista)
• MaryAnn meal (pap starter, feshwado, granadilla mousse.)
• Cattle Baron (sirloin with bacon, avo, camembert), chocolate mousse
• Woodside with mum (steak n chips, calamari)
• Stormsriver ribs & Malva Pudding
• Big braai at Geoergian House
• Vetkoek
• Hogsback pizza
• Mutton pie and muffins (waiting for bus). Pancakes at Sani. 
• Amphithetre:  Butternut soup, pork belly, apple crumble and custard. 
• Best braai ever with Chrisel's family?  Ribs, steak, potato bake, carrot cake.  
• Lamb potjie (Amphitheatre, Utopia)
• Camps Bay Retreat:  Mushroom risotto, Kudu loin, chocolate mousse (with cereal?)
• I cooked lamb in slow cooker with red wine for family.
• Steak and chips at Brendan and Eva
• Veal at Casa Ristorante
• Indian food (Shamista)
• Thai restaurant with Srini (Duck curry)
• Chicken soup (I make for Chris, Jilly, Craig).
• Chicken soup. Jagos lamb salad with Liza
• Kirribili meals with Srini (lamb shanks, ribs)
• Botanica with Yogi - Almighty, lamb skewers, ginger drink.
• Botanica lamb skeers, All Mighty
• Eggs and toast

2013

Meals

• Salad at Brendan's
• Mexican at Eva and Brendan (lamb)
• Turkey Roast with Sue
• Thai duck at Waverton
• Dani's Belgian pancakes
• Turkey dinners with Sue
• My slow cooker meals (ossu buco , apricot chicken etc.)

Restaurants

• Fancy restaurant for scollops
• Mexican restaurant after Two Creeks
• Nepalese restaurant
• Spanish Tapas
• Thai (Neutral Bay)
• Radio Cairo
• French restaurant (anniversary)
• Nandos
• Bavarian Beer caffee (Pork belly with Andreas)

2012

• Mocha
• Pad See Ew 
• Dani's tiramisu
• Belgian waffles

Restaurant

• Thai Waverton
• Blue Mountains (Italian, Chinese)
• Mexican (after hike)

2006

• Bull's testicles
• Guineapig
• Offal hotpot (Brazil)
• Doug and Claudia's pepper-corn steak
• Buffet by weight (Rio)
• Torres del Paine fry up
• Seafood with Doug & Claudia
• Buenos Airies steak
• Lamb chops (El Calafate)
• Isla Grande self service icecream

2004 - 2005 

Food

• Iced coffee and vanilla frappocino at Liverpool Street
• Meal at web council
• lamb rack in Gothenberg - best lamb ever
• Volvo Thursday roasts
• Steve Fuhrter's strawberry juice
• Brooklands court sunday picnics in the lounge
• Glue Vine (and Swedish Glug)
• Meals at La Taska (Gothenberg)
• Volvo caffeteria
• Cambridge crepes
• pork ribs @ John Barleycorn
• North Carolina onion rings
• Wilga and Normon's garden picnics

Restaurant

• Codfather
• John Barleycorn ribs
• Smaka
• Eating at Nandos (Cambridge)

2000 - 2003

London

• Putney gourmet burgers
• North Acton lamb and mint burgers
• Biltong from The South African shop, London
• Tescos Crème Caramel (London)
• Roast beef & yorkshire pudding (touch rugby)

Travels

• Thick shake & Blue Moon Pancake (Dahab)
• Food after 2 weeks of dahl baht in Nepal
• Yak steak (Nepal)
• Camel steaks (Damascus)
• Pistachio Icecream (Damascus)

Restaurant

• The Grove rib-eye steak 
• Scollops in Knightsbridge, London
• Dessert wine at The Oxo Towers, London
• Pocara steak (Nepal)

1990 - 2000

Food

• Kendal Mint Cake (Granchester, Lake District)
• Pint of prawns (Plett)
• Rosemarie's chocolate gateau and risotto
• Melissa's French Nougat
• Ally's apple pie with ginger
• Ally's lemon merengue pie
• Mexican wrap and berry smoothy from Kuali
• Woolies picnics
• Crepes and thick-shakes at Dulces
• Allies Jamie Oliver's sweet and sour chicken
• South African Don Pedro
• Ally's lamb & pavlova
• The food in Istanbul
• Hagendaaz Icecream (Kensington)
• Sea food hot pot (Ko Bulan, Thailand)
• Cream tea in Devon
• Yoghurt and honey (Olympos, Turkey)
• Squirrel
• meals at George's Place (Butterfly Valley, Turkey)

Restaurants

• Le Petite Fermet lunches
• Lamb in pastry at The Wild Fig
• Barrister's Madagascan Fillet
• Nandos chicken, chips with perinase and olives
• Desserts at The Village restaurant
• Boschedahl buffet
• Kushiri (Cairo)

1980 - 1988 

Food

• Spring rolls from Dean Street Chineese
• Frozen Yogurt Blizzard
• Roast beef & veggies & kiersch (Gran)
• South African braais with sizzling boerewors
• Cassanova veal and cassata
• Spur Hero Burger
• Ribs at The Spur

Restaurant

• Cassanova veal and cassata
• Spur Hero Burger
• Ribs at The Spur

1970 - 1980

Food

• Granny Station's roast chicken & junket
• mum's chocolate mousse, banana pudding & crème caramel
• Leche sorbet at San Marcos (Sea Point)
• Mum's chicken soup
• Mum's Xmas cake
• Jam donuts and custard slice at Silwood bakery
• Mum's Xmas dinners, particularly xmas pudding and brandy butter
• Granadilla lollies, St James
• Caramel crisp icecreams as a kid
• Mum's Sunday Roasts
• Coffee and Top Deck wtching TV on Saturday nights
• Mum's rice pudding
• Welsh Rarebit
• Appletizer on the beach with grandpa as a kid
• Granny's chicken lunch

Restaurants

• Mount Nelson lunches with the family as a kid
• Birkenhead dinners with granny and grandpa as a kid
• Spur Hot Rock & Pecan Nut Sunday
• Pancake place

Related food posts

• Eating out
• Cooking
• Dinner parties
• Ice cream
• Dessert
• High tea
• More favourite food

Restaurants and cafes

• Frenchy's
• Flying Bear
• The Alchemist
• The Botanica
• Sappho Book cafe
• The Oaks
• Sydney Fish Market
• Cattle Baron
• Spur
• Wine farm meals

⬇︎ Keep scrolling for all posts tagged as “Food”

The Willow Road front row

During our year sharing the Willow Road house, Russell, Ally, and I formed a tight-knit, happy trio. Ally was already a wonderful cook, but she possessed that restless drive to get even better. She eventually signed up for a professional cooking course held over eight successive weeks.

The arrangement was "glory of glories" for Russell and me. Ally would go to her class, they would cook up a storm, and then she would bring the evening's creations home for us to "test." To say the food was delicious would be an understatement; it was an absolute delight.

As the weeks went by, Russell and I developed a ritual of our own. Ten minutes before Ally was due to arrive, we would spring into action. We’d drag the couch across the living room and position it directly facing the front door. We would sit there side-by-side, plates balanced on our laps and cutlery clutched in our hands, literally salivating in anticipation.

Every week, when Ally finally let herself in, she was met with the same ridiculous sight: two adoring, starving men staring at her with the hopeful intensity of puppies waiting for a treat.

Ally would always burst into laughter at the spectacle, and then we would all tuck in. It remains one of my favorite memories of our time together—a perfect slice of domestic happiness where the only thing better than the food was the theater of waiting for it.

The glow of Paradise Island

In 1996, Ally and I flew to Mozambique for a romantic getaway on the legendary Paradise Island. The hotel had been the height of opulence in the 1960s, but decades of civil war had left it in a state of beautiful decay. It was in the early stages of a renovation and, in the meantime, was offering a "rustic experience" at a price we couldn't resist.

The island was every bit the postcard: leaning coconut trees, brilliant azure water, and sand the color of gold. The hotel was equally atmospheric. When we arrived in our room, we found an assortment of candles left on the table by the friendly staff. We embraced the mood immediately, spending our evenings in the soft, flickering amber light, feeling like castaways in a more elegant era.

We spent an idyllic week lazing on the beach and chilling out by candlelight. We didn't even miss the hum of a bar fridge; the primitive, unplugged island life was exactly what we needed.

On our final morning, as we were lugging our bags toward the door to catch our flight, I happened to shoulder-nudge the old, peeled-away plastic switch on the wall.

Voila! The room was suddenly flooded with electric light.

We stood there, blinking like owls in the unexpected light, and burst into laughter. The modern world had been standing right there in the corner the entire time, waiting patiently for a single flick of a finger. We had spent the entire holiday in a 19th-century fantasy purely by accident. We didn't mind—the candles had provided a romance the local power grid never could have matched—but it was a hilarious reminder of how easily we inhabit the "reality" we think we've been given.

The Franschhoek threesome

In the early days of our relationship,  Ally and I escaped to Franschhoek for a romantic weekend. We’d found a cute, secluded cottage on a farm—the kind of place designed for long, slow mornings.

Our first day began exactly as planned. We woke up in a sprawling, comfortable bed and spent the morning enjoying the rare luxury of being able to laze around. We canoodled, cuddled, and did exactly what loving couples do when they have nowhere else to be.

At around 10:30 AM, we finally decided it was time to face the day. Ally stood up and peeled back the heavy duvet to let the bed breathe.

There, nestled in the warm hollow where we had just been lying, was a scorpion.

It was a small, brown fellow—exactly the kind you don't want to find in your linens. As every South African knows, there are two main types of scorpions: the big, black ones with impressive pincers but a relatively mild sting, and the small, brown ones with tiny pincers and a massive, potentially lethal sting.

Our uninvited guest was the latter.

We stood there in horrified silence, realizing we had spent the last several hours sharing our most intimate space with a high-velocity venom delivery system. The "romantic morning" was instantly replaced by a frantic search for a glass jar.

We eventually caught him, escorted him to a far-off corner of the farm, and asked him very politely to never seek a "threesome" with us again. Thankfully, he took the hint, and it remains the only time in our relationship where we’ve had to worry about a third party in the bed—especially one with a tail.

Memorable moments: The 0.1 percent predicament

When Ally and I first arrived in Sydney, we stayed with our friends Doug and Claudia while we navigated the daunting task of finding a home and work. I soon spotted an opening at Agency Fusion—a firm specializing in web strategy and marketing. It felt like a perfect fit, but there was one hurdle: a mandatory online aptitude test.

I’ve never been a fan of the artificial pressure of these assessments, so I decided to level the playing field. I recruited a "dream team" to tackle the link. I handled the verbal sections, Ally—with her creative, visual eye—mastered the pattern recognition, and Doug, the engineer, tore through the numerical data. Working as a single unit, we were unstoppable.

A few days later, I sat down for an interview with the founders, Louise and Warren. We clicked immediately; the conversation flowed, the skills aligned, and the vibe was perfect. As the interview wound down, they looked at me with genuine awe.

"Well," they said, "we love your experience, and personality-wise you’re a great fit. But goodness gracious, Graeme—your aptitude test results came in the top 0.1 percent of the global population. You’re at a genius level."

I got the job on the spot. It was a triumph, but as I walked out of the office, the weight of the "Genius" tag began to settle on my shoulders. I realized I hadn't just secured a position; I had committed myself to an impossible standard. For the duration of my time there, I lived with the quiet, nagging stress of trying to live up to the combined brainpower of an engineer, a creative director, and a strategist. In retrospect, I probably should have just done the test myself—it would have been far less stressful to be "merely" competent than to spend every day pretending to be a one-in-a-thousand prodigy.

Memorable moments: The evolution of Srini

My close friend Srini is a remarkable man. Raised in Bangalore, India, he began his life as a self-described computer nerd—a coder who spent the majority of his time behind a screen, significantly overweight and largely confined to his room.

Then, out of the blue, a LinkedIn job offer arrived from Australia. It took immense courage, but Srini got up from his desk and flew to a land he didn't know, where he knew absolutely no one.

In an effort to meet people, he joined a hiking group on MeetUp. For his first trek—a long trail in the Royal National Park—he arrived as the ultimate beginner: wearing jeans and carrying his lunch and gear in plastic shopping bags instead of a backpack.

I met him shortly after on another hike and immediately fell for him. He was a beautiful, friendly, and passionate guy, and that passion was quickly transferring to the outdoors. He graduated to a more professional group, tackling challenging, off-track routes. As the weight fell off, a new version of Srini emerged.

He became a master of navigation, leading our little group of friends into remote wilderness areas. He was fearless. He took up climbing, then canyoning—which required swimming through dark, subterranean rivers that never saw the sun. Remarkably, he could hardly swim when he started, but he refused to let that stop him.

Soon, the man who once carried shopping bags was abseiling down massive waterfalls and setting up complex rope systems to keep us all safe. He took up pack rafting, learning to navigate huge rapids with the same precision he once used for code.

Today, Srini is the ultimate mountain man—fit, skilled, and fearless. He has pursued adventures across the Himalayas, New Zealand, and Europe. He is a true inspiration, proving that a person can completely rewrite their own "software" and that passion, once ignited, is the most infectious force in the world.

Memorable moments: Propaganda and the scream

Growing up in the midst of Apartheid South Africa, my childhood was framed by the visible architecture of segregation. I remember the "White Only" signs on the beaches, the segregated train carriages, and even the separate public toilets. I was fortunate enough to attend a multiracial private school, but the world outside was strictly partitioned.

One afternoon, I spotted a piece of graffiti on a wall while riding the train. I went home and asked my father a question that was, at the time, heavy with unspoken weight: "Who is Mandela?" Even as a young child, I felt a growing sense that the reality I was being shown was fundamentally wrong.

This feeling was crystallized every morning at the breakfast table. At 7:00 AM, the radio would air "This Morning’s Comment." It was always delivered in an ultra-serious, officious tone—the mouthpiece of the government using every rhetorical trick and current event to legitimize the Apartheid system. It was pure, unadulterated propaganda.

But the moment that segment ended, the airwaves were pierced by a sudden, ridiculous scream: "CHICKEN MAN!!!"

It was a silly, off-the-wall program that followed the heavy propaganda with absolute nonsense. To be honest, as a kid, I found them both irritating in their own way. But as I sat there with my cereal, the contrast struck me as something profound.

I began to see "The Chicken Man" as a wonderful, perhaps accidental, metaphor. It was as if the universe—or someone clever in the radio planning department—was saying that everything that had come before was complete and utter ridiculous bullshit. The shrill absurdity of the chicken was the only honest response to the officious lies of the state.

Memorable moments: The potjie and the peaks

In 2015, I was backpacking through South Africa with my friend Chrisel. We arrived at a hostel nestled in the shadow of the magnificent Drakensberg mountains and discovered they had a potjie—the traditional, heavy cast-iron cauldron used for slow-cooking over an open fire.

We went to the local shop and loaded up on supplies: lamb, heaps of vegetables, and stock. Back at the hostel, I set about building the fire in the garden. It wasn't something I did often, and the pressure of "getting it right" started to mount.

As the oil began to sizzle, the stress took over. I became obsessed with the mechanics of the meal—searing the meat, tossing the vegetables, frantically moving everything around to ensure nothing burnt before the liquid went in. Chrisel told me to relax and leave it be, but I snapped back, convinced that one wrong move would ruin the entire day's investment. I was totally lost in the drama of the pot, my world shrinking down to a few square inches of bubbling iron.

Finally, after an hour of intense, fixated labor, the water and stock were added. The lid went on. The "crisis" was over; the stew just had to simmer for the next three hours.

I stood up, my body stiff from crouching, and finally looked up from the dirt.

The sight hit me like a physical wave. The spectacular peaks of the Drakensberg were looking down at me, ancient and unmoved. The trees in the hostel garden were swaying gently in a soft afternoon breeze. I could hear the rhythmic twittering of birds darting to and fro. It was a scene of absolute, unwavering peace.

I realized then, with a visceral jolt, that while I had been trapped in a self-made prison of stress and "culinary emergency," this peace had been present the entire time. It hadn't gone anywhere; I had simply tuned it out. I hadn't been mindful. I had been living in a mental simulation of a disaster while standing in the middle of paradise.

The Drakensberg didn't care about my burnt lamb, and the wind didn't care about my irritation. They were simply being. That realization remains the foundation of my daily practice. When the world feels loud or the "stew" of my life feels like it’s burning, I go outside. I look at the greenery, feel the air, and listen to the birds. By choosing my senses over my thoughts, I find the peace that was there all along. It’s the ultimate way to wake up.

Memorable moments: The Jaisalmer spit-shine

In 1997, Ally and I were backpacking through Rajasthan, India. We found ourselves in Jaisalmer, the "Golden City," and signed up for what we imagined would be a majestic three-day camel trek through the Thar Desert.

The reality was a bit more abrasive. Our camels were incredibly bad-tempered, and the seating was a masterclass in discomfort. However, the desert scenery was spectacular, and as the sun began to set on our first night, the vast, shifting dunes almost made the saddle-soreness worth it.

Our expedition leader, a local man of practical habits, began preparing dinner over the campfire. As he was plating up, he noticed one of the metal dishes wasn't quite up to his standards. With a loud, guttural clear of his throat, he delivered a hefty spray of spit directly onto the plate, then gave it a vigorous buffing with his filthy shirt sleeve.

We watched in paralyzed horror as he piled our food onto the "cleaned" surface. But, being young, exhausted, and absolutely starving, we ate every last bite.

The consequences arrived with the morning sun. As we set off the next day, Ally’s stomach decided to stage a full-scale revolt. She signaled that she had to get off, and the camel performed its awkward, jarring "press-up" maneuver to kneel in the sand. Ally dismounted, threw up, and climbed back on. A few hundred yards later, the process repeated. Press-up, dismount, vomit, remount.

Eventually, the sheer physical labor of the camel’s gymnastics became too much to bear. Ally simply said, "Fuck it," and began projectile vomiting directly from the height of the camel’s hump. I have never seen her so sick. We eventually limped back to the Jaisalmer Fort, where she spent the next several days in a darkened room, recovering from the most scenic—and hygienic—disaster of our lives.

Memorable moments: The gauntlet of relaxation

Some of the most painful experiences of my life have been grooming and massages. It began in 1997, when I decided to visit a traditional Turkish Bath. After prepping in a steam-filled room, a massive, muscle-bound attendant began the Kese—a traditional scrub using a coarse handmade mitt. There was no soap, just water and pure, aggressive friction. He used long, firm strokes with such ferocity that I saw "rolls" of dark material shedding off my skin. It was a visceral process of shedding years of environmental pollutants, but the intensity was so high I honestly thought my skin might peel off right then and there.

I was relieved when it was over, assuming the peak of physical intensity was behind me. I was wrong.

In India, I went for a haircut and shave. The barber gave me a scalp massage that was, briefly, heavenly. But then, without warning, he took my head firmly in his hands and gave my neck a massive, bone-jarring "crick." It was totally unexpected and not altogether welcome.

In Thailand, I sought out a massage to help with my tight muscles. The masseuse took my lack of flexibility as a personal affront. She pulled me into all sorts of contorted, impossible positions and seemed to view my cries of pain as a sign that she was finally "winning."

The finale took place in Singapore, while I was on my way to the Arctic. I decided on a foot massage, which turned out to be the most painful experience of my life. She pushed so deeply into the soles of my feet that I felt the pressure in my very marrow. I came close to yelling, "Okay, okay, I confess!"—certain she was looking for state secrets rather than tension.

Looking back on my travels, there is a strange irony in seeking out peace and ending up in a state of physical combat. From the scrub of a muscle-bound Turk to the sudden, neck-snapping "crick" in India, I have been scrubbed, contorted, and pressured into a version of relaxation I’m not sure I ever actually agreed to. It’s a vivid reminder that the body has its own story to tell, and sometimes, the only way to "find yourself" is to have a stranger in Singapore try to push your soul out through the bottom of your feet.

Memorable moments: The Wit Els hopping hazard

In 2006, I returned to Cape Town for the Wit Els hike with Ally, Russell, and our friend Mike. It was a formidable four-day undertaking: a steep mountain climb followed by a descent into a deep canyon for days of relentless boulder hopping along the river.

Just before we set off, Mike met two pretty Belgian backpackers. Smitten, he impulsively invited them along. We began the ascent, finally reaching the summit in the pitch black—only to discover that the top of the mountain was engulfed in a raging wildfire. It was terrifying, but we managed to reach "The Hoar Hut," which fortunately sat within a protective firebreak. We spent the night huddled inside while the world outside turned into a furnace.

The next morning, we descended into the steep canyon to begin the boulder hopping. It was here that Mike’s romantic gesture collided with cold, hard reality: the Belgian girls were catastrophically bad at it. They had zero balance and were incredibly cautious. Every hop was a twenty-minute negotiation.

By day three, we had only covered a third of the river. The "four-day" hike was looking more like a fortnight. With our supplies and patience dwindling, we were forced to take the only emergency exit on the river—a brutal, punishing climb back out over another mountain.

It was a stark lesson in the logistics of attraction: when inviting strangers on a boulder-hopping hike, always ensure they actually know how to hop.

Memorable moments: The literal holiday

When I was an English teacher in Sydney, I taught young adults at a local college. Every lesson began with a high-stakes ritual: marking the attendance roster. For these students, those checkmarks weren't just about grades; they were the lifeline for their visas. If they weren't in their seats, their right to stay in Australia was at risk.

Because the subject matter could sometimes be dry, I prided myself on making my lessons as inventive and creative as possible. I wanted to pull them out of their textbooks and into the world.

One day, I launched into a particularly ambitious speaking exercise. "All right, everyone," I announced with a flourish, "let’s pretend you have all won a wonderful prize: an all-expenses-paid week-long holiday to anywhere in Australia! In your groups, I want you to discuss where you want to go."

I fanned out a collection of glossy brochures featuring the Great Barrier Reef, the Red Centre, and the rugged coastlines of Tasmania. "Get those creative juices flowing!"

The room buzzed with excitement—except for one girl. She sat perfectly still, looking deeply concerned. As I moved around the classroom, monitoring the "trips" being planned, I passed her desk. She leaned in and whispered urgently, "Teacher, when we go on this trip for a week, will we still get marked off on the attendance roster?"

I stopped in my tracks. I realized in that moment that she hadn't seen the brochures as a prompt for a fantasy; she had seen them as a travel itinerary. To her, this wasn't an exercise in speaking—it was a looming logistical crisis.

Memorable moments: The Goddess of Eight Bells

When I was young, our family holidays were spent at a farm retreat called Eight Bells, several hours from Cape Town. For me, the entire trip revolved around one thing: the horses.

I wasn't an experienced rider, but I made up for it with sheer, unbridled passion. The routine was always the same—we would walk the horses slowly up the paddock, then turn around for the ride back. That was the highlight, when the horses would pick up the pace into a trot or, if we were lucky, a gentle canter.

I was usually assigned the "mellow" mares, the ones with sweet, nursery-rhyme names like Tinkerbell and Buttercup. They were patient, steady, and—in my memory at least—pure white. I felt like a king on their backs, even if we were mostly just following the trail.

But then there was the farmer’s daughter.

She was eleven to my nine, and she inhabited a completely different world. While I was bobbing along on Buttercup, she was mounted on the stallions—beasts with names like Storm and Fury, as black as mine were white. She didn't walk or trot; she galloped.

I can still see her vividly: charging across the paddock with immense, effortless confidence, her long blonde hair flowing behind her like a banner. She was magnificent. To a nine-year-old boy on a horse named Tinkerbell, she wasn't just a neighbor or a fellow rider; she was a force of nature. I watched her from the back of my slow-moving mare, completely enthralled by the speed, the power, and the sheer "otherness" of a girl who could tame a horse called Fury.

She belonged to the wind and the open field. I belonged to the track and the steady rhythm of hooves. And somewhere between Buttercup and Fury, between walking and flying, a small boy first felt the pull of a bigger, wilder world.

Memorable moments: Automated aggression

During my time at Volvo in Duxford, I made frequent business trips to the corporate heartland of Gothenburg. I usually stayed at the Radisson, a hotel that catered to the brisk, efficient schedules of visiting executives. Because our meetings often started at the crack of dawn, I relied heavily on the hotel’s wake-up call service.

It was a standard, automated system: you’d speak your requested time into the phone, and the next morning, a computerized voice would chime, "This is your wake-up call." It was cold, functional, and perfectly Swedish.

One morning, after a particularly early set-up and a night of restless, fragmented sleep, the phone rang at 5:00 AM. I was in a foul mood—irritable, exhausted, and ready to lash out at the inanimate technology that was dragging me into the light.

I snatched up the receiver and, before the "machine" could even get a word out, I snarled into the mouthpiece: "Fuck off!!"

There was a long, horrifying silence. Then, instead of the expected robotic tone, a very small, very shocked female voice whispered back:

"Oh... I am so sorry, sir. I hope I didn't get your wake-up call wrong!"

I felt the blood drain from my face as I sat bolt upright in the dark. It turned out the automated system had gone on the blink overnight, and the front desk staff were manually calling every room to ensure the guests weren't late.

I spent the next several minutes in a state of profuse, stuttering apology, trying to explain that I wasn't actually a monster—just a man who had mistakenly declared war on a computer.

Memorable moments: The Waverton slide

I took my beloved Mack for a walk to Waverton Park late one night. As was our ritual, I let him off the lead the moment we hit the grass, letting him bound into the darkness. But the weather turned quickly; a sudden rain began to slick the paths, and we started to make a run for home.

Before I could clip his lead back on, Mack caught a scent or a spark of excitement and bolted toward the road. My heart stopped. A car was approaching, its headlights cutting through the drizzle, just as Mack stepped into its path.

All I could think was, "No, Mack."

Without a second of calculation, I charged into the road. My plan was to scoop him up and carry him to safety, but the wet bitumen had other ideas. My feet went out from under me, and I fell headlong onto the road, sliding directly into the path of the oncoming car. Mack, nimble as ever, skipped out of the way to safety.

The car came to a bone-shaking, screeching halt just inches from where I lay.

The driver was absolutely enraged—and rightfully so. He jumped out of the car, his voice shaking with adrenaline. "Are you crazy!" he screamed. "How can you throw your life away like that for a dog!"

I picked myself up, dripping and bruised, and looked across at Mack. He was standing on the pavement, tail wagging, completely oblivious to the fact that I had just attempted a clumsy martyrdom on his behalf.

In that moment, the driver's logic meant nothing to me. I wasn't thinking about my own safety; I was thinking about how much I loved that dog. I imagined the impossible task of going home to tell Liza, Mack’s co-owner, that he was gone. She was so beyond besotted with him that the news would have been world-ending.

I apologized profusely to the driver, standing there in the rain as he vented his shock. Then, Mack and I turned and walked on into the night. I was wet, sore, and had been thoroughly told off, but as I looked at that dog trotting beside me, I knew I’d do it all again in a heartbeat.

Memoral moments: The duvet reveal

One evening, I decided to take Mack for a walk. For once, I also brought along Milly—my housemates Matt and Sharmista’s year-old pug-spaniel cross. We headed toward Waverton Park, a good three-kilometer trek that took us across Brennan Park and through several busy suburban streets.

When we arrived, the park was shrouded in darkness. There were no lights, but in a moment of misplaced confidence, I let both Mack and Milly off their leads. I walked for a few more minutes, soaking in the night air, before a cold realization hit me: Milly was no longer visible.

I began to panic. I called out "Milly! Milly!" into the blackness. I paced up and down the park, my anxiety spiraling. I even enlisted the help of other walkers, who joined the search with flashlights and sympathetic faces. But after an hour of scouring the shadows, there was still no sign of her.

With a heavy, thudding heart, I began the long walk back to King Street. The guilt was overwhelming. How was I going to break it to them? I had lost their dog in the dark, three kilometers from home. As I crossed the multiple roads back to our house, I rehearsed my apology over and over, bracing for their devastation.

I reached the house and found the front door open. I walked in and saw Matt and Sharmista on the couch, wrapped in a duvet and watching TV. I took a deep breath, my voice trembling, ready to deliver the terrible news.

Suddenly, a small head popped out from the folds of the duvet. Two big, dark eyes blinked at me. It was Milly.

The relief was so intense I nearly collapsed. How a one-year-old pug-spaniel managed to navigate three kilometers of dark parks and busy roads entirely on her own, I will never know. Matt and Sharmista looked up at me with a smile, completely unaware that anything untoward had happened.

I never had the heart to tell them that their dog had spent the last hour dicing with death on the streets of Sydney. I just took a deep breath, sat down, and marveled at the secret, navigational genius of a dog who clearly knew the way home better than I did.

Memorable moments: The bottom drawer betrayal

My neighbor Helen was undeniably sexy, and for weeks, there had been a undeniable spark between us—a series of subtle flirtations that seemed to be building toward a predictable conclusion. When she finally invited me over for dinner, the atmosphere was already charged.

After a couple of drinks, I excused myself to the bathroom, where I found a large, artistic nude photograph of her staring back at me. It was the ultimate mood-setter. I walked back into the lounge feeling more animated than ever, the "signal" loud and clear.

The tension peaked when Helen looked at me with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Come to my bedroom," she whispered. "Let’s be naughty together."

Bingo.

We retreated to her room and sat on the edge of the bed. I was mentally preparing to go in for the definitive kiss, my heart hammering with anticipation. But just as I leaned in, Helen pivoted away. She reached down and slid open her bottom bedside drawer.

Instead of a romantic gesture, she produced a very large, expertly rolled spliff.

"Hope you don't mind us doing this here," she said casually, as the first cloud of smoke began to drift toward the ceiling. "People can see us from the lounge window, so it’s much more private in here."

The disappointment was absolute—a crushing, silent landslide. The "naughty" behavior she had promised wasn't a passionate encounter; it was simply a clandestine smoke in a room with better curtains. We spent the rest of the evening on a mellow, hazy high, chatting comfortably as the romantic spark evaporated into the air.

Memorable moments: The epic spray

I have always struggled with seasickness. Over the years, two specific voyages have etched themselves into my memory—not for the scenery, but for the sheer, green-tinged misery of the experience.

The first was on my eighteenth birthday in Mauritius. To celebrate the milestone, our family chartered a yacht for a cruise. It was a choppy, restless day, and as the boat pitched, my stomach began its own rhythmic descent into darkness. I reached a point of such profound nausea that I actually had fantasies of diving overboard just to end the motion. I desperately wanted to be sick, hoping for that legendary moment of relief, but my body refused to cooperate.

I was sitting doubled over, staring at the deck in a state of absolute "suffer-fest," when a well-meaning hand thrust a large plate directly under my nose. It was piled high with pungent tuna sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs. That was the breaking point. The smell was the final sensory assault I couldn't survive. I scrambled for the back of the ship and delivered an epic, birthday-defining spray into the Indian Ocean.

Ten years later, I found myself on a ferry from Israel to Egypt. The Mediterranean was in a foul mood, and the ship was tossing violently. This time, I wasn't alone in my suffering; the entire deck was a gallery of green faces. I retreated to the stern to reenact my eighteenth birthday, joining a line of fellow passengers who were all projectile vomiting over the railing.

What sticks in my mind most vividly, however, isn't the sickness—it’s the gulls. An entire flock of them hovered in our wake, shrieking with delight. They weren't just following us; they were diving into the sea to feast on our collective misery. It was a sobering reminder of the natural order: while we were experiencing the lowest point of our human existence, the seagulls were having the best lunch of their lives.

Memorable moments: The $1 heartbreak

I have always loved a good shower, but two specific experiences stand out in my memory—one representing the pinnacle of human pleasure, the other a descent into cold, shivering despair.

In 2001, I tackled the Annapurna circuit in Nepal. It was a three-week trek through the staggering beauty of the Himalayas, but it came with a catch: for the first two weeks, there were no showers to be found. By the time we arrived in a small mountain town that offered hot water, I was more trail-dust than man.

That shower was the closest thing to religious bliss I have ever experienced. I didn't just stand there; I sat on the floor and rocked to and fro in utter ecstasy as the hot water hammered down on me. In that steaming cubicle, I made a silent, solemn vow to the universe: I will never take a hot shower for granted again.

Fourteen years later, the universe decided to test that vow.

I was hiking with friends near Lake St. Clair in Tasmania. It had been a long, miserable day of trekking through relentless rain. I was soaked to the bone and shivering with a deep, internal cold. When we finally made it back to the campsite, the sight of a shower block felt like a hallucination of salvation.

I hurried inside, fumbled out of my sodden clothes, and stood naked in the cubicle, trembling with anticipation. I reached for the handle, ready for that Himalayan heat—and saw the sign that broke my heart: INSERT $1 FOR HOT WATER.

Chuntering under my breath, I frantically searched my discarded clothes. I found notes. I found 50-cent pieces. I even found a $2 coin. But the elusive $1 gold coin was nowhere to be found.

There is a specific kind of fury that comes from standing naked and freezing in front of a machine that demands exactly what you don't have. Swearing at the injustice of it all, I had to pull my wet, cold clothes back onto my shivering body and head back out into the rain in search of a dollar.

Memorable moments: The sooty shins

When I was seven years old, I underwent surgery on both of my Achilles tendons. The recovery required me to have both legs encased in plaster of Paris from my toes to my knees for six long weeks.

At the start, I loved it. My legs became a living canvas as friends and family covered the white plaster in doodles and signatures. I can still understand the appeal of tattoos based on that early experience of wearing my social circle on my shins.

However, the novelty eventually wore off, replaced by a relentless, agonizing itch deep inside the casts. In our family home in Medway, we had a beautiful fireplace complete with a set of copper tools. Desperate for relief, I discovered that the long, slender fire poker was the perfect tool for the job. I would slide the cold metal down the top of the cast to reach those impossible spots. It was heaven, providing the only real relief I could find.

Finally, the day arrived to have the casts removed. The doctor brought out a specialized cutter and began the process of vibrantly buzzing through the layers of plaster. As the shells fell away, he suddenly recoiled in genuine horror.

My shins were stained a deep, mottled black.

For a terrifying second, the doctor was convinced he was looking at a catastrophic, gangrenous infection that had claimed both of my legs under his watch. His relief was palpable—and perhaps a little exasperated—when I explained that I’d simply been scratching myself with the soot-covered fire poker for the last month.

Memorable moments: The final word from Hermanus

My mother never quite saw eye-to-eye with her in-laws. She was English, they were South African, and in their eyes, no woman on earth was ever going to be "good enough" for their beloved son. Mum spent years feeling judged and under the microscopic lens of their constant, silent criticism. While my sister and I doted on our grandparents and looked forward to their Sunday visits, Mum spent those afternoons in a state of high-alert irritability.

Eventually, they passed away at a ripe old age. As a final tribute, Mum and Dad drove to Hermanus—the seaside town my grandparents had loved—to sprinkle their mixed ashes from a scenic cliff into the ocean.

It was meant to be a moment of closure. Mum took a cup of the remains and cast them out toward the water. But at that exact moment, the Cape wind whipped up in a sudden, mischievous gust. Instead of drifting gracefully to the sea, the ashes blew straight back, coating Mum’s face in a fine, grey mist of her late in-laws.

"Good God," Mum sputtered, wiping her face in disbelief. "They're having a go at me even in death!"

A couple of years ago, I asked mum if she believed in life after death. She didn't hesitate for a second. "I hope not," she remarked dryly. "That would probably mean I’d have to see my in-laws again."

Memorable moments: The Grinder revelation

A couple of years back, I invited my meditation group over for an evening of quiet contemplation. We were deep into the "Now," watching Eckhart Tolle on the TV and soaking in the stillness of the room.

Toward the end of the night, my long-term housemate, Martin, returned from his weekly Friday ritual at the pub. Martin is a wonderful character, funny at the best of times, but particularly "tiddly" after a few pints. He wandered into the lounge, still radiating the boisterous energy of the public house, and joined our circle of calm.

My friend Sushann, curious about our living arrangement, asked Martin how the two of us had originally met. The mundane truth was that we’d connected through a website called Roommates.com.

Martin, however, saw a golden opportunity. With a mischievous twinkle in his eye and the confidence of three beers, he looked at the group and deadpanned:

"We met through Grindr!"

For anyone familiar with the app, the joke was obvious—a renowned hookup site for gay men was the furthest thing from our "Roommates" reality. The room erupted in laughter, and we moved on, eventually drifting back into our meditative presence.

Or so I thought.

A few weeks later, Sushann pulled me aside, her expression heavy with solemnity and a touch of newfound understanding.

"Wow, Graeme," she said with all seriousness, "I didn’t realize you were gay."

It turned out she was the only person in the room who hadn’t caught the punchline. To her, Martin’s drunken "revelation" wasn't a joke; it was a profound piece of personal history. It was a classic "Myburgh" moment: while I was sitting there immersed in a world of spiritual presence and higher consciousness, Sushann was busy recalibrating my entire identity based on a Friday night prank.

Memorable moments: The cobbled vibration

When I lived in London, I took up rollerblading, and it was pure, unadulterated exhilaration. Every weekend, I would skate from Hammersmith through the city streets to Hyde Park for a game of touch rugby. Gliding over the smooth tarmac, weaving through the urban landscape, I felt a sense of total freedom—a modern-day centaur on wheels.

Then, I moved to Cambridge.

I arrived with the same skates and the same excitement, eager to explore the historic city on eight wheels. However, I quickly discovered a fundamental design flaw in my plan: Cambridge was built in the 14th century, and its architects had absolutely no foresight regarding polyurethane wheels.

The city is a labyrinth of ancient, beautiful, and utterly merciless cobblestones.

Rollerblades, as it turns out, do not come equipped with shock absorbers. The moment I hit those historic stones, the "exhilarating freedom" was replaced by a bone-shaking, teeth-rattling vibration that threatened to liquify my internal organs. It wasn't a glide; it was a full-body seismic event. Every joint in my body felt the protest of six hundred years of masonry.

My dreams of skating through the university grounds were quickly curtailed. I was forced to abandon the historic center and confine my skating to a small, humble patch of modern tarmac near my house. It was a stark lesson in historical compatibility: you can’t bring 21st-century momentum to a 14th-century surface without paying for it in every bone of your body.

Memorable moments: The Matric marathon

In South Africa, the Matric Dance is the undisputed peak of the school social calendar. It’s a night of high-stakes glamour, tuxedos, and floor-length gowns. I went with a childhood friend, Wendy, but my close friend Tony was in a bit of a bind. Tony was the academic titan of our year—frighteningly intelligent and always top of the class—but he was a bit of a nerd and lacked the social "processing power" to find a date.

Feeling for him, I offered up my sister, Jo. She was gorgeous, lovely, and possessed a non-judgmental patience that I knew would be the perfect safety net for Tony.

The night began perfectly. We all looked the part in our formal gear, the atmosphere was electric, and the girls looked spectacular. Then, the music started, and the "disaster" began to unfold on the dance floor.

Tony, whom I had never seen move faster than a brisk walk toward a library, didn’t so much find the rhythm as he did a pace. Being tall and gangly, he didn't sway or step. He jogged. He began to lunge up and down on the spot with giant, athletic strides—arms pumping and legs churning with the mechanical efficiency of a cross-country runner.

Poor Jo was dutifully in tow, trying to maintain some semblance of a dance while Tony treated the disco lights like a finish line. After about an hour of this high-intensity cardio, Jo and I managed a quick sidebar. She was breathless but smiling, her legendary patience still intact.

"My God," she whispered, "he must have clocked up at least ten kilometers by now!"

It was a classic "Tony" moment. He had approached the dance floor with the same relentless focus he applied to his exams, oblivious to the fact that he was the only person in the room treating a slow ballad like a qualifying heat for the Olympics.

Memorable moments: 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.

Memorable moments: 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.”

Memorable moments: The almond heist

When I was young, I was quite the pilferer. Looking back, I'm genuinely surprised it didn't lead to a full-blown life of crime. My operations were divided into two distinct categories: the sophisticated, high-stakes heist and the reckless, sugary smash-and-grab.

The flaked almonds were my "Ocean’s Eleven" moment. I would wait until the kitchen was empty, then strike. First, I’d liberate a razor blade from my father’s bathroom cupboard. With the precision of a diamond cutter, I’d slice a microscopic slit into the side of my mother's almond packet, edging out the nuts one by one. I’d then seal the wound with a sliver of cellotape so perfectly that the packet looked untouched. It was a literal heist, and Mum never cottoned on.

My other ventures were significantly less subtle. I had a habit of raiding the freezer for Mum's chocolate, an addiction that once got her so irritated she sent me off on my bike to the local café to buy her a replacement with my own money.

But my undoing was the condensed milk. I would steal the tins, retreat to my room, and indulge in the thick, sugary loot. I was eventually busted when Mum discovered a mountain of discarded, empty tins hidden in the back of my own cupboard. To this day, I can’t remember why I didn’t think to discard the evidence.

In hindsight, my criminal career had a very clear pattern: brilliant entry, catastrophic exit.

The almond job was all finesse—silent, precise, almost artistic. The chocolate raids were impulsive but survivable. But the condensed milk… that was less “heist” and more “crime scene preservation.”

It turns out I wasn’t caught because I lacked intelligence. I was caught because, at some point, it simply stopped occurring to me that crimes should include an escape plan—or, at the very least, a rubbish bin.

Memorable moments: The fifty-hour silence

Between 2010 and 2012, I taught English at an adult college in Sydney. My classrooms were a vibrant, global crossroads, and I was always fascinated by the predictable "nationalities" of conversation. The Brazilians were the life of the party—outgoing, loud, and happy to butcher every rule of grammar as long as the story was moving. The Koreans, by contrast, were the quiet architects; they were masters of the written rule but notoriously reserved when it came to speaking.

When the school asked if I’d take on a private Korean student for fifty hours of one-on-one conversation, I thought, Why not? I’ll never forget our first meeting. Merry was twenty, bright-eyed, and painfully shy. I arrived armed with an arsenal of conversation starters, "ice-breakers," and deep philosophical prompts. I leaned in and asked a simple, gentle question about her life.

She whispered a single monosyllable in a voice so tiny it barely disturbed the air.

A cold wave of "imposter panic" washed over me. I looked at the clock. There were forty-nine hours and fifty-nine minutes left. In that moment, I wished with all my heart for a boisterous Brazilian—someone who would talk over me, ignore my corrections, and fill the silence with a thousand cheerful errors. Trying to get a sentence out of this girl felt like trying to draw blood from a stone.

Slowly, however, things began to shift. Over the first few hours, I stopped pushing and started simply being the aware space for her silence. Bit by bit, the stone cracked. She began to trust the environment, her confidence grew, and the monosyllables turned into sentences, then stories, then profound insights into her culture.

By the end of the fifty hours, we weren't just practicing English; we were having some of the most amazing conversations of my teaching career. It was a powerful reminder that while some students lead with an immediate, exuberant energy, the quietest ones often hold the deepest truths—if you are willing to provide the space and patience for them to finally emerge.

Me and Merry

Memorable moments: The slow-motion comb

I have always struggled with a deep-seated phobia of making people wait. If I’m even a few minutes behind schedule, a familiar, prickly anxiety begins to bloom. For years, I wondered where this frantic need for punctuality came from, but looking back at our family trips to Muizenberg beach, the source is clear.

Muizenberg was a local institution, and on a good day, the parking lot was a battlefield. Dozens of cars would circle the asphalt like sharks, or as my father would mutter under his breath, "Vultures!"

After a day in the sun, Jo, my mum, my dad, and I would troop back to our cream-colored Volkswagen Variant. Inevitably, a "vulture" would spot us packing our gear and pull up alongside, indicator blinking with predatory expectation. Most people, sensing the pressure, would hurry.

My father was not most people.

We would climb into the car, the waiting driver idling just inches away, ready to pounce on our spot. Instead of turning the key and vacating the space, Dad would reach into his pocket and slowly, deliberately, produce a comb.

Then, he would begin a performance that felt like it lasted a lifetime. In extreme slow motion, he would meticulously comb his mostly bald head. He wasn't just grooming; he was savoring the power. He would check his reflection, adjust an invisible stray hair, and enjoy every agonizing second of making the "vulture" wait.

In the back seat, Jo and I would catch each other’s eyes and roll them toward the ceiling in a silent plea for the earth to swallow us whole. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, a masterclass in petty defiance that Dad absolutely relished.

I think I spent the rest of my life running five minutes early just to compensate for those few minutes in the Muizenberg parking lot. While my dad was finding his bliss in the slow-motion stroke of a comb, he was inadvertently hard-wiring me to never, ever be the person holding up the line.

Memorable moments: The Birkenhead legend

When I was a child, I was the grandson of a living legend—a man of quiet reserve and an incredibly enormous appetite. One of our greatest family traditions was traveling to Hermanus to stay at the Birkenhead Hotel with Granny and Grandpa. It was a magnificent place, perched right by the crashing Indian Ocean, and it was renowned across the Cape for its culinary indulgence.

Every night, we would process into the dining room. Grandpa was always greeted by name by the staff; despite his reserved nature, he was a local celebrity in those halls.

The menu at the Birkenhead was a masterpiece of choice: there were always seven starters, seven main courses, and seven desserts. The portions were healthy, the food was delicious, and the hotel policy was dangerously encouraging—you were allowed to order as many dishes as you wanted. In fact, they practically dared you to explore the limits of your own hunger.

My grandfather was the only man in the hotel's history to accept that dare in its entirety. In a single sitting, he quietly made his way through the entire menu—all twenty-one dishes.

He didn't make a scene or demand attention; he simply sat there and methodically etched his name into the hotel’s history books. As the waiters shuttled back and forth, bringing plate after plate of starters, mains, and sweets, the room seemed to hold its breath. He was revered by the staff and fellow guests alike for his silent, gastronomic stamina.

I remember sitting there, a small boy in the shadow of this quiet giant, feeling a surge of immense pride. I wasn't just related to a man who liked his food; I was the grandson of a man who could conquer a hotel menu like a mountain. It taught me early on that you don't need to be the loudest person in the room to become a legend—sometimes, you just need a very steady fork and an unstoppable resolve.

Memorable moments: The cockroach koan

In Sydney, the cockroaches aren't just pests; they are armored invaders. They are enormous, incredibly fast, and—for me—a source of primal horror. They seem to possess a sentient malevolence that defies the usual "it's more scared of you" logic.

One afternoon, I found a particularly large specimen lying belly-up on the kitchen floor. It was perfectly still, its legs stiff and its antennae frozen. It was stone-dead. I saw this as a golden opportunity. I decided to use the power of mindfulness to finally conquer my phobia using this harmless, discarded shell of a creature. I would be the "aware space" for my fear.

I hesitantly scooped the carcass up and placed it on my upturned palm. I stood there, breathing deeply, feeling the tension drain out of my shoulders. I felt the dry, brittle sensation of the legs against my skin—a mere physical sensation, nothing more. I focused on the horror, welcoming it, observing it without judgment. Breathing in, breathing out. Gradually, a great, meditative calm washed over me. I had done it. I had transcended the insect.

And then the sucker moved.

It didn't just twitch; it wriggled violently, its prehistoric legs suddenly churning against my skin with a frantic, tickling energy. The "corpse" was suddenly very much alive and clearly offended by my spiritual experiment.

The "aware space" collapsed instantly. Like a scalded cat, I let out a blood-curdling shriek. My hand whipped upward with the force of a spring-loaded trap, launching the creature into the stratosphere. My journey into Zen ended in a frantic, undignified dance across the kitchen tiles.

People say mindfulness can change your relationship with your fears. They're right. Before that day, I was merely horrified by cockroaches; ever since, my horror has been massively compounded by the knowledge that they are capable of playing dead just to mock my progress toward enlightenment.

Memorable moments: Standing on edge

During my university years, I lived in constant awe of my housemate, Oliver. He was studying Business Science Finance—a notoriously grueling course that demanded mathematical precision and endless hours of focus—yet he navigated it with what seemed like the absolute minimum amount of effort. Oliver didn't just leave his studying to the last minute; he seemed to leave it entirely to chance.

I remember one night in particular when he was trying to decide how to spend his evening. He pulled out a coin and announced his strategy:

"If it’s heads, I go to the movies. If it’s tails, I go to bed. If it stands on its edge, I study."

I watched him live life to the full, seemingly unburdened by the academic pressures that kept me awake at night. Despite this breathtakingly relaxed approach to one of the hardest degrees at UCT, he graduated and immediately landed a prestigious job at Morgan Stanley. He was simply one of those people—blessed with the kind of innate talent that meant he never actually had to see that coin stand on its edge.

Memorable moments: The hip-sized oversight

On a perfect Cape Town day, Ally, some friends, and I made the beautiful trek along the Atlantic coast to Sandy Bay. Being a nudist beach, the experience requires a level of tactical preparation that a standard trip to Clifton does not.

I was meticulous. I was incredibly careful to apply layers of sunscreen to my "privates," knowing that parts of me usually shrouded in textiles were about to face the harsh African sun for the first time. I was also on high alert with the refreshments. Ally had brought a flask of hot coffee, and I sat with the posture of a statue; I’ve always been inclined to spill drinks in my lap, and I knew that a scalding coffee mishap in the nude would be a disaster from which I might never recover.

When I hit the water, I was equally cautious. There was a bit of a rip that day, so I kept my boogy boarding to the safer, shallower breaks. I felt like a master of risk management.

However, nature always finds the gap in your defenses.

Despite all my careful planning, the day ended in a two-front tactical failure. First, I discovered that the relentless friction of boogy boarding in the nude is a biological error; the wax and the board combined to give me a rather nasty, agonizing rash on my most intimate areas.

Second, I realized that in my obsessive quest to protect the "valuables" with sunscreen, I had completely neglected the surrounding territory. I had left a wide, unprotected ring around my naked hips. While my center was safely shielded, my hips were glowing a radioactive shade of crimson.

I walked back from the beach that day with a very specific, wide-legged gait—partly to soothe the rash and partly because my burnt hips couldn't bear the touch of my own clothes. It was a painful reminder that no matter how much you prepare for the "big" risks, it’s the small, overlooked details that usually get you in the end.

Memorable moments: Raspy tongues and greasy pots

When I was sixteen, I went on a school trip to the Okavango Delta in Botswana. It was a sensory-overloaded, extraordinary experience—gliding through secret waterways in a dugout canoe and watching the wildlife drift past.

However, the reality of camping on an island in the Delta involved a fair amount of "suffer-fest" labor. We were a participatory group, which meant everyone shared the chores. The worst of these was the washing up. With no detergent and no hot water, trying to scrub the grease off metal pots and plates was an exercise in futility and frustration. One of my classmates, Peter, took a particular dislike to the task, spending most of the first night complaining bitterly about the state of our cookware.

On the second night, exhausted and defeated by the grime, we were given permission to leave the dirty pots and plates until the morning light.

In the middle of the night, the atmosphere shifted. A clan of hyenas arrived, circling our tents with their eerie, guttural chortling. I remember the smell—it was thick, wild, and incredibly pungent. Lying in my sleeping bag, listening to them sniff around just inches from the canvas, was terrifying. Eventually, the sounds faded, and the "smelly" visitors disappeared into the bush.

The next morning, we braced ourselves for the greasy cleanup. Instead, we found that our cookware had undergone a professional-grade restoration. Every single pot and plate had been scoured to a mirror finish. The hyenas had spent the night using their incredibly raspy tongues—which would have put any metal scourer to shame—to lick every molecule of fat from the metal.

While the rest of us were still shaking off the fear of the night's visitors, Peter was absolutely ecstatic.

"We’ve solved it!" he shouted, holding up a sparkling pot. "We can do this again tonight! No more need to clean the plates!"

Memorable moments: The Observatory leak

Back in Cape Town, Russell, Roger, and I had a regular, somewhat clandestine ritual: the Sex Quiz in Observatory. It was held in a private basement area of a local pub, tucked away from the more "prudish" patrons upstairs.

The highlight of the night was a round where the quizmaster would play snippets from various adult films. The challenge was simple: guess what happened next. You earned a point for a correct answer, and another if your guess was funny enough to make the room roar. To facilitate this "educational" exercise, a TV was mounted high on the basement wall.

One night, we were deep into the third snippet—a particularly explicit scene that required some creative guesswork. Suddenly, a flustered pub staff member came sprinting down the stairs, looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least something he wasn't supposed to).

He spoke urgently to the quizmaster, who hit the "Stop" button with panicked speed.

It turned out that the pub’s technical team had forgotten one crucial detail that evening: they hadn't separated the TV feeds. Throughout the entire building—including the main bar and the quiet family restaurant upstairs—every screen was showing our "private" quiz content.

It was the ultimate reminder that in life, just when you think you’re in a private "basement" of your own making, the rest of the world might just be watching the broadcast.

Memorable moments: The middle way

When I was seventeen, my family flew to Mauritius for a holiday. We touched down at the airport in Port Louis and boarded a bus to be transported to our hotel. Almost immediately, the journey took on a life-threatening quality. The driver operated the vehicle like a bat out of hell, hurtling down the center of the road with terrifying speed.

My mum, who has never been a calm passenger at the best of times, was visibly shaken. We were all sitting right at the front of the bus, giving us a panoramic view of what appeared to be impending doom. As we gripped our seats, we noticed that we weren't alone; many of the other cars were also straddling the white lines, treating the two lanes as one giant suggestion.

My dad, trying to make sense of the chaos, finally spoke up. "Wow," he said to the driver, "everyone seems to drive right in the middle of the road here!"

The driver let out a hearty laugh, not even slowing his pace.

"Yes!" he shouted over the engine. "You see, when the French colonized our island, they forced us to drive on the right. Then the English came and they forced us to drive on the left. Now that we are independent, we drive in the middle!"

It was the perfect lesson in post-colonial logic. While the diplomats were busy drafting constitutions, the bus drivers of Mauritius had found their own way to express their freedom: by occupying every inch of the asphalt at ninety kilometers an hour.

Memorable moments: The vowels of doom

During my time at Volvo’s UK headquarters in Duxford, I was part of a high-pressure team tasked with redesigning the global corporate website. One morning, in our hushed, open-plan office, I prepared to pull up the live site at volvo.com for a quick reference check. My fingers flew across the keys, but just as I hit "Enter," a phone call distracted me.

I looked away to answer, leaving the page to load in full view of the room. A few seconds later, my colleague Andre Pocock leaned over, his eyes nearly popping out of his head.

"My goodness, Graeme," he hissed, "what on earth are you looking at?"

I turned back to my screen and felt a jolt of pure, corporate-grade horror. Instead of the safe, Swedish lines of a family station wagon, I was staring at a giant, high-definition, and very explicit anatomical image. 

In my distracted state, my fingers had betrayed me. I hadn't typed the home of the "Iron Mark"; I had swapped the two vowels in volvo with other letters and navigated directly to a site that was much more "biological" than "automotive."

The contrast between Volvo’s brand values and the screen in front of me was absolute. I managed to kill the window before the rest of the department could wander over, but for the rest of my tenure, I never hit the "Enter" key again without the realization that you can't navigate life—or the internet—without a great deal of care.

Henk's Flying Memoirs

Henk loved nothing more than to fly planes and to collect and drive vintage cars. Here is a wonderful memoir he wrote about his flying experiences. So beautifully written.

Henk's Flying Memoirs

Late 1949 I responded to an advertisement in the local Bloemfontein newspaper for volunteers to join the S.A. Air Force Reserve—this meant being taught to fly for a reserve commitment of 10 years. Flying would not interfere with my studies and/or work as all tuition would be conducted for an hour every morning at 6 a.m. and on Saturday afternoons. My dad had learnt to fly in Holland in the closing stages of World War I—Holland was neutral so he saw no combat. I discussed my interest with him and he encouraged me to go for it.

There were 53 applicants and from these, four prospective pupil pilots were to be chosen. Firstly the 53 were medically examined and the number was reduced to 21. From these a further seven were to be chosen. The final seven were then flown to Voortrekkerhoogte for aptitude and decompression tests. After two days of intense testing and written and oral examinations, a final four were selected for pilot training. I was one of the lucky ones!

My initial training started on 11 January 1950 in the De Havilland Tiger Moth ZS-AJA—this was to last three months in which period I amassed a total of 50 flying hours. I solo-ed in 7 hours 55 minutes—an experience never to be forgotten. After a further test by a SAAF instructor I was declared proficient enough to attend a month's training course converting on Harvards at Central Flying School in Dunnottar. This was an intense instruction course in which I collected a further 35 flying hours on Harvards, solo-ing in 5 hours 40 minutes.

After this course it was back for further instruction on Harvards for 12 months in Bloemfontein. This period was quite uneventful except for one incident that rattled me. I was scheduled to carry out aerobatics one particular morning—the sky was overcast and a typical Highveld thunderstorm was threatening. The instructor told me I could go up and go through an opening in the cloud formation, but to watch it, to come down when it closed up.

I executed a roll-off-the-top—this is a half loop, being upside down on the top of the loop and then half rolling to a normal upright position. This manoeuvre is to be smoothly carried out because one is close to stalling the aircraft. Then all hell broke loose as the thunder, lightning and hail came crashing down on me as I was still in the inverted position. It scared the hell out of me resulting in my aircraft stalling and going into a spin.

To say I was confused is putting it mildly. Instinctively I pulled back on the joy stick which only aggravated matters—by now the Harvard was spinning merrily down, no let up in hail and lightning. Then good training came to the fore and I performed the standard procedure of getting out of a spin—stick forward and opposite rudder, and eased out of the spin. I was in full control again, albeit shaken up, as I cleared the clouds and could see the ground again!

But the saga did not end there. My compass had gone awry so I couldn't orientate myself. It was still raining heavily, visibility not good and I couldn't recognise any salient points. But then I saw a soft glow, obviously the sun, so now I thought I knew where East was. Then I crossed a railway line and followed it because sooner or later I would pass a siding or station indicating where I should be. After all, I was South of the aerodrome. But time marched on and still no known point, bearing in mind visibility was poor.

Suddenly I saw a village looming ahead and following the railway line could now determine where I was—Trompsburg! It did not make sense, as I had flown East of the sun so I should have reached Bloemfontein! Then it dawned on me that it wasn't the sun in the East, but the reflection of the sun through rain clouds in the West. I had been flying on a 180 degree reciprocal! I turned around immediately and now flew Northwards to Bloemfontein where my instructor was anxiously awaiting his pupil and Harvard—he was more concerned about his aeroplane than his pupil! All in all, it was an excellent learning curve.

The 12-month period now consisted of aerobatics, instrument flying, night flying, formation and navigation. Then in May 1951 I went up to Central Flying School for my final wings course for a further 35 hours, culminating in receiving the covetted wings badge and 2nd Lieutenant pip. My parents came up for the parade. I was now a fully fledged officer of the SAAF, and posted to 8 Squadron, Bloemfontein.

The general flying area at that time was 10 miles (16 km) to the West of Bloemfontein. My parents lived on a plot alongside the main road to Kimberley. Whenever I finished my exercises I would do a low level flypast and waggle my wings at them. As I passed over their house I saw a stationary bus offloading some passengers and carried on at low level to give them a treat—apparently some people were highly upset. The bus driver took the time of day as well as my registration number painted on the underside of the wing.

When I went up to Dunnottar for the wings parade, I was called to the Commandant and given a dressing down for illegal low flying and gated for the duration of the month. My parents came up to Dunnottar for my 21st birthday where a party had been arranged for me. My dad went to see the Commandant to see if I could be released for the Saturday evening—no deal! It was a punishment for illegal low flying and was to remain as such.

In the meantime I befriended the guard at the gate and told him my story of woe—he was most sympathetic. For two bottles of beer he would look the other way, furthermore I was to be back by midnight because after that the gate would be closed. I had a wonderful birthday bash in Johannesburg!

My military flying with 8 Squadron was confined to Saturday afternoons only—this worked well as it did not encroach on my other recreational activities. In summer I volunteered for one early morning 5 a.m. met. flight per week—this was most enjoyable as you climbed up to 20 000 feet (6100 metres), taking and noting pressure and temperature readings. You were allowed an hour for this and generally you had about 20 minutes left before returning to the aerodrome.

On this particular day after Christmas Day, I carried out one loop after the other, from 20 000 to 7 000 feet. Now the Harvard when looping, makes an awful din when upside down, it is a characteristic of the machine. In my noisy descent over Bloemfontein, a lot of good folk were highly upset and phoned Control who promptly ordered me to stop messing around so early and to come down. The editor of one of the local newspapers had something to say too, but it all blew over quietly.

On another occasion returning from a met. flight, I flew over Mazelspoort where my folks were holidaying. They were standing on the weir across the river with some friends where I did a low level pass at 200 feet (60 metres) and executed a victory roll directly over them. Mom apparently had pups whilst dad stood there very proud to see his son doing such a low level roll—no doubt reminding him of his own youth!

I applied for a private pilot licence and because of my SAAF training, obtained it as a mere formality. My licence was for any single engine aircraft not exceeding the weight of a Harvard. No single engined aircraft was heavier so I had an open licence to fly anything—all that was required was a familiarization flight with an instructor. After 6 years of squadron flying, the then Minister of Defence, F.C. Erasmus, shut down all reserve flying squadrons so my 10-year commitment was cancelled, although I still had 4 years to go—that was the end of my military flying. I also missed an opportunity to convert to De Havilland Vampire Jet fighters.

I had one nasty experience during my training period at Dunnottar. I was told to practise short take offs. A short take off consists of the aircraft turning into wind, brakes on and throttle fully open—releasing brakes, flaps fully down and as soon as the aircraft lifts off, you pull back the stick and climb away steeply, the aircraft is barely flying but hanging onto a screaming engine. At 150 feet (45 metres) the engine cut out. You have no flying speed so the aircraft literally fell to the ground. It was over in seconds and I hit the ground, shearing a wing off and leaving a mangled wreckage for the rest. The ambulance was there in minutes, I was examined and declared O.K. I was taken up immediately again with an instructor to clear up any psychological after-effects—there were none!

After my military flying had ended, I now switched over to private civilian flying. Here I was indeed fortunate because of my profession as an engineer. I could fly to most building sites—this enabled me to build up hours and further experience. I hired aircraft for this purpose and could write it off as tax relief. In 1985 I bought a half share in a Cessna 182 Skylane and enjoyed this machine until I retired from my work as well as flying. I sold my share as part-owner and we retired to Cape Town. To have kept up my licence would have cost too much. I had a lot to be thankful for, having piloted for 44 years. I still keep an active interest in all aspects of flying—I realize that progress cannot be kept at bay—in the early fifties flying was much more relaxed and less regulated. It was just so much more fun then.

TOTAL NUMBER OF HOURS FLOWN: 2482 HOURS 15 MINUTES ENDED FLYING: NOV. 12th 1992

Aircraft flown as pilot in command:

• Tiger Moth
• Harvard
• Piper Cub
• Piper Cruiser
• Beechcraft Bonanza
• Piper Tripacer
• Aeronca Chief
• Piper Vagabond
• Mooney
• Piper Colt
• Piper Supercub
• Piper Cherokees 140, 180, 235
• Cessnas 150, 172, 182
• Beechcraft Musketeer
• Beechcraft Sundowner
• Piper Tomahawk (20 total aircraft types)

Vintage/Classic Cars:

• 1937 Chevrolet Dicky Seat
• 1961 Jaguar MK 2 3.8 litre
• 1938 Buick Roadmaster
• 1947 Bentley MRK VI
• 1948 Studebaker Champion
• 1953 Citroen Light Fifteen
• 1957 Rolls Royce Silver Cloud I
• 1963 Jaguar MK 2 3.4 litre
• 1967 MGB Roadster
• 1972 Rolls Royce Shadow I 

Memorable moments: The adult Santa

On a visit back to Cape Town, Ally and I were invited to the annual Christmas party of the "Hardcore Hiking Group," a tribe of adventurers we’d belonged to for years. Usually, our friend James—a naturally funny guy—played the role of Santa. But this year, James couldn't make it. As the visiting guest, I was bestowed with the great privilege of the red suit.

I donned the beard, padded the stomach, and made my grand entrance. I decided to channel the boisterous, floor-shaking energy of my grandfather, but as I stepped into the room, something shifted. I let out a deep, booming, guttural roar that echoed off the walls:

"HO! HO! HO! WHO’S BEEN GOOD AND WHO’S BEEN BAD THIS YEAR?!"

It was, in retrospect, terrifying. Instead of a "jolly old elf," I sounded like a vengeful mountain deity who had come to settle a debt. My "heartiness" was so intense it felt like a physical threat. A wave of pure, unadulterated horror swept through the room. Several toddlers immediately burst into tears, while others dove for cover behind their parents' legs, convinced that this massive, shouting red man was there to take them away. It was a demographic disaster.

However, when the sun went down and the "Adult Santa" session began, my frightening intensity finally found its proper audience. The hikers, fueled by Christmas spirit, were a much more receptive crowd for my brand of storytelling. The darker the innuendo, the louder the laughs.

"I know you’ve been bad," I told one regular hiker, "so let’s dispense with the small talk, little lady."

I leaned into the role with gusto, fielding requests with lines like:

• "Wanna come with me on the sleigh and join the mile-high club?"
• "Control yourself, dear—I don't want water on my knee."
• "I’m lonely up at the North Pole. To be honest, I need someone really bad. Are you really bad?"
• "Sorry I’m late... I got my sack caught in the chimney."
• "How many chimneys did I go down today? Stacks!"

By the time the night was over, the room was in hysterics. I realized then that while I might be a nightmare-inducing prospect for a four-year-old, I make an excellent Santa for the over-eighteen crowd.

Original post of the event

Memorable moments: The 14th floor fallout

In 2006, when Ally and I first arrived in Sydney, we rented an apartment on the 14th floor of Blues Point Tower. It was an imposing, 25-story landmark—so famous it even featured in Finding Nemo as a standout piece of the Sydney skyline. With the Opera House framed perfectly in our kitchen window, we truly felt we had arrived.

One night, I was standing at the sink doing the washing up, staring out at the harbor lights. Suddenly, a dark shape blurred past the glass. My heart stopped. A body had just fallen past my window from the floors above.

The shock was total. I was certain I had just witnessed a suicide. I craned my neck, pressed my face to the glass, and watched as the figure hurtled toward the ground at a terrifying speed. I braced myself for the impact.

Then, at the very last possible second—incredibly close to the pavement—a massive parachute exploded open. The figure hit the ground in a controlled flurry of nylon, gathered the chute together in a single, practiced motion, and sprinted off into the night.

It wasn't a tragedy; it was a BASE jumper.

I stood there with a soapy plate in my hand, completely stunned. It was my first real introduction to the Australian spirit of adventure: some people don't just admire the view from a landmark—they throw themselves off it for fun.