John, Sandy and Nancy from my Photography Meetup joined me on a photo walk around the rocks with a new photography group called We Are Observers. The theme for the evening was "photographing fives". It was a fun evening in a local haunt that is always full of interesting things to photograph.
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.
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| How cute is this little guy! |
Food is a gift and should be treated reverentially - romanced and ritualized and seasoned with memory. Chris Bohjalian
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.
A couple of years back, I signed up for a Buddhist meditation class. The goal was simple, yet profound: learn how to let all earthly cares fall away and finally experience true bliss.
One day, I found myself running a few minutes late. To make matters worse, one of the traffic lights on my route was playing up, causing a frustrating delay. Before I knew it, I was swearing at the dashboard and driving far too fast, my heart racing as I maneuvered through traffic to make it to the retreat on time.
Suddenly, the great irony of the situation hit me like a physical weight.
Here I was, getting myself into a frantic sweat and driving like a maniac, all so I could reach a building where I would be taught how to remain calm. I was sacrificing my peace of mind in a desperate attempt to go "learn" peace of mind.
In that moment of realization, I took a long, deep breath. I decided to become completely mindful of the present, letting go of the deadline and intentionally slowing right down. My state of being shifted instantly from panic to presence.
Then, something miraculous happened. From that point forward, every single traffic light between me and the retreat turned green. The congestion seemed to simply melt away, and I glided through the streets with effortless ease. Despite my earlier delay and my new, slower pace, I pulled into the retreat with ten minutes to spare.
It was a powerful metaphor for life: the harder we push against the world in a state of resistance, the more it pushes back. The moment we find the "bliss" within ourselves first, the world outside seems to rearrange itself to match.
In 2015, I went on a road trip to Tasmania with a group of friends. It was a trip defined by incredible landscapes and some of the best hiking in the country, but the moment that stuck with me most happened far away from the trailheads.
We had stopped off at the Cradle Mountain gift shop, browsing through the usual souvenirs, when I stumbled upon a book that stopped me in my tracks. It was a cookbook entirely dedicated to the culinary preparation of fresh "road krill."
Tasmania is famous for its abundant wildlife, but that also means a tragic number of marsupials end up as casualties on the road. This book took that reality to its most extreme, "redneck" conclusion. It featured full-color recipes for dishes that sounded like they belonged in a dark-comedy fever dream: Wombat Soufflé and Roast Rack of Kangaroo.
But the detail that truly killed me was the suggestion for presentation. The author recommended that, for the ultimate local touch, one should use echidna quills as kebab spikes.
Whether the book was a genuine guide to bush survival or a brilliant piece of performance art designed to mess with tourists, I couldn't say. But as I stood there in the shadow of one of Australia's most beautiful mountains, looking at a recipe for a marsupial soufflé, I realized that Tasmania doesn't just embrace its "out-there" reputation—it marinades it and serves it on a spike.
When friends from overseas visit, I don’t just take them to the Opera House; I take them on a formal tour of the public amenities. It is a masterclass in automated hospitality. You walk in, and the door glides shut with a soft, futuristic click. Then, a warm, friendly voice fills the small space: "Welcome and enjoy your experience here!"
Before you can even process the invitation to "enjoy" a public restroom, the soundtrack begins. It doesn't just play elevator music; it plays the classics, including the theme of "What the World Needs Now Is Love, Sweet Love." There you are, in a public park in Sydney, experiencing a moment of profound, melodic encouragement in the most unlikely of settings.
When the "experience" is complete, the voice returns with a gentle reminder: "Thank you for using me. Please wash your hands." It then punctuates the request by dispensing a perfect, polite little squirt of soap.
I love Brennan Park, but I love that toilet even more. It is a rare and wonderful thing to find a piece of technology that seems genuinely invested in your well-being. In a world that can often feel cold and mechanical, this little booth stands as a beacon of programmed sincerity—offering music, hygiene, and a small, automated reminder that what the world really needs is a little more care and a clean set of hands.
A friend of mine once shared a story from a solo trip to Thailand that serves as a cautionary tale about the perils of travel-induced optimism. He had gone for a massage and, finding the masseuse quite attractive, soon found himself in a state of unmistakable physical arousal.
The woman looked down, looked back at him, and asked a direct, two-word question: "You want wank?"
Being single and on holiday in a far-flung land, he didn't take long to weigh his options. He figured, “Why not? I’m miles from home, I’m unattached—let's go with the flow.” He gave her a nod of consent.
She smiled and immediately left the room. My friend lay there, his heart racing with anticipation, assuming she had gone to fetch some oil or perhaps to prepare for the "service."
She was gone for a surprisingly long time. He waited in the quiet room, his expectations mounting with every passing minute of the silence. Finally, after a significant delay, the door opened and she stepped back inside. She looked at him with a pleasant, professional curiosity and asked:
"You have good wank?"
It turned out she wasn't offering her services; she was simply offering him the room for a bit of "private time" while she went off to have a tea break. He had spent ten minutes in a state of high-alert romantic anticipation, while she had simply been waiting for him to finish the job himself.
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.
I love tennis and have played on and off my entire adult life. If I have a "claim to fame" on the court, it’s the staggering, almost comical difference in speed between my first and second serves. My first serve was always incredibly hard—a raw, high-velocity strike. My second serve, by contrast, was a gentle "putt" over the net, the kind of shot you’d expect from a 90-year-old grandmother on a Zimmer frame.
During my time in the UK, I attended a professional tennis coaching camp. They used a speed-tracking machine to monitor our serves and provide data-driven advice. When it was my turn to step up to the line, I unleashed my first serve with everything I had.
The coaches were stunned. They checked the monitor and told me, with no small amount of awe, that it was the hardest serve they had measured in five years. I stood there, glowing with pride, basking in the glory of being the camp’s unofficial speed king.
Then came the "but."
"Graeme," they continued, looking at the rest of the data, "your percentage of serves actually landing in the court is the lowest we have ever recorded. Our professional advice to you is to stop using that serve entirely. Just use the granny serve."
I had achieved the pinnacle of power, only to be told that my record-breaking thunderbolt was statistically less useful than a Zimmer-frame lob. It was a humbling lesson in the difference between "impressive" and "effective"—and a reminder that in tennis, as in life, it doesn't matter how fast you're going if you aren't actually on the map.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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."
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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 |
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.
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.
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.
