I got some wonderful photos of my baby possums. The very next day they left for another nest. So lucky to get these as a beautiful memory of a very special experience. It was such a priviledge to watch them grow up on my balcony. Hopefully mum will come back next year. In the meantime, another young possum has moved in. He is living inside the wooden frame that covers my air conditioning unit.
At sixteen, I learned that Botswana doesn't just have sunsets; it has traps. When our tyre exploded in the pitch-black desert on the way to the Okavango, we had no choice but to pitch tents by the roadside. As we fumbled in the dark, someone casually remarked that something "soft and tickly" had just brushed his bare foot. I realized, with a sudden jolt of electricity, that I’d felt the same thing.
We flicked on the torches, and the ground didn't just move—it heaved. It was like the snake pit in Indiana Jones, only the snakes had been replaced by a carpet of scorpions the size of human hands, all tails up and ready for war.
We immediately initiated a frantic "military operation" to reclaim our territory, shaking scorpions out of tents and—to our horror—finding them already nestled in our sleeping bags. In the ensuing struggle, we suffered one very unfortunate casualty: a sting to a little toe.
The "surgery" that followed was pure frontier melodrama. With a twig between his teeth for the pain and two pretty girls holding his hands for moral support, his toe was sliced open with a sterilized blade. I’m still not sure what hurt him more—the venom or the fact that his life was in the hands of a group of teenagers with a campfire aesthetic and a very sharp knife.
Years later, I was heading for a quiet shower at Mkuzi National Park. I was five metres from the block when the screaming started. Suddenly, naked bodies began flying out of windows and doors like a synchronized swimming routine gone horribly wrong.
The cause? A Black Mamba. It’s one thing to face a predator when you’re armed and booted; it’s quite another when you are at your most vulnerable, clutching a towel and a bar of soap, facing a snake that can outrun a professional sprinter.
Finally, there was the Elephant. With the Kruger gates closing in twenty minutes and a hefty fine looming, I found my path blocked by a massive bull elephant munching on a freshly toppled tree.
Every time I edged the car forward, he stopped eating and flared his ears—the elephant equivalent of a "Keep Off the Grass" sign backed by lethal force. It was a choice between a one-hour detour or a leap of faith. Reminding myself that fortune favours the brave (and the budget-conscious), I floored it.
As I sped past, I could swear he feigned a lunge with his tusks. I didn't look back to check. I was too busy calculating the insurance excess on a "tusk-shaped hole" in a rental car door.
I’ve since learned that several motorists have had their cars flipped by those very bulls. If I’d known that then, I probably would have just paid the fine—or moved into the park permanently.
When I was a kid, my father took me on my very first fishing trip during one of our camping holidays at Uilenkraal. My dad was a man of precision and patience, and he treated the art of angling with a kind of sacred reverence.
I, however, was a disaster. I did everything technically "wrong." I chose the wrong sinker, my hook-setting technique was non-existent, and my casting was so weak the bait practically landed on my own toes. To make matters worse, I couldn't stop talking—shattering the quiet, meditative atmosphere my father lived for.
I was a walking encyclopedia of how not to fish.
But the universe has a wicked sense of humor. Within five minutes of my pathetic, short-range cast, my rod doubled over. After a chaotic struggle, I hauled in a massive, beautiful Steenbras.
My father stared at the silver prize flapping on the sand, then looked at his own perfectly rigged, expertly cast, and profoundly empty lines. He didn't catch a single thing for the rest of the day.
My dad spent the drive home explaining the "physics of the current," but I knew the truth: that Steenbras just wanted me to shut up as much as he did.
My neighbor Helen was stunning, and I’ll admit, I was eager to impress. During a conversation over the fence, she mentioned she loved coconuts. Naturally, I claimed to be a lifelong devotee of the fruit myself.
A few days later, she appeared with a gift. "I bought you a coconut!" she chirped. We stood outside her flat as she excitedly bored a hole into the shell, popped in a straw, and handed it to me. She stood back, watching with a look of pure, expectant joy, waiting to witness my tropical bliss.
I took the first sip.
The "cream" was... unique. It tasted distinctly "off," with a metallic, slightly fermented tang that grew more aggressive with every swallow. But Helen looked so happy—so proud of her selection—that I couldn't bring myself to break the spell. I channeled every ounce of my inner composure and drained the entire thing, hiding my mounting nausea behind a polite smile.
"Now," she said, her eyes gleaming, "let’s eat the flesh together!"
She grabbed a nearby stone and cracked it open on the pavement. We both leaned in.
The interior was a horror show. Instead of pristine white meat, the inside was a void of jet-black, fuzzy rot. It looked less like food and more like a biological experiment gone wrong.
Helen recoiled, then turned to me with a look of genuine alarm. "Graeme! It’s putrid! Why on earth didn't you say anything!?"
I just stood there, my stomach currently hosting a small colony of ancient mold, realizing that while I’d set out to be a "smooth" neighbor, I’d actually just become the world’s most polite victim of food poisoning.
My neighbor Helen was beautiful, charismatic, and—at the time—completely unnerved. Over dinner at her flat, she confessed that she felt she was being stalked by a brief ex-boyfriend named Mark.
"I can feel his eyes on me from the park," she whispered, gesturing toward the dark expanse of Brennan Park that loomed outside her lounge window. I was skeptical. I’m a man of logic; I suggested it might be the wind or the stress of the breakup. When she pointed to a palm frond that had appeared on her mat—a symbol of significance in their relationship—I pointed to the nearby palm tree and the recent storm. "Maybe it’s just nature, Helen," I said.
A week later, we were back at her table. The air was thick with her anxiety. "He’s there," she whispered suddenly. "I can sense him now."
She marched to the window, staring into the pitch-black void of the park. "Mark, I can see you!" she yelled. I peered over her shoulder, seeing nothing but shadows and rustling leaves. I was halfway through a mental lecture on the power of suggestion when a dark figure detached itself from the trunk of a tree and stepped into the light of a streetlamp.
"And Helen," a deep, chilling voice shouted back, "I can see you. Who is that man with you!?"
The reality hit like a physical blow. Helen screamed about the police, the figure vanished back into the darkness, and the "illusion" was suddenly very, very real. Terrified, Helen spent the night on my couch.
The next morning, the sun was out, and the world felt rational again. We got up to walk back to her flat to make sure the coast was clear.
I opened my front door to step out, and my heart stopped. There, centered perfectly on my own front mat, was an enormous, fresh palm frond.
During university, I was desperate to impress a girl I really liked. I decided the best way to her heart was through her stomach, despite the minor detail that I didn't actually know how to cook.
I briefly considered passing off a flame-grilled chicken from Coimbra as my own, but settled instead on a "foolproof" plan: a Woolworth’s ready-made chicken lasagna. I figured if I kept it in the oven long enough to look authentic, she’d never know.
The evening began perfectly. Soft music was playing, candles were flickering, and I pulled the lasagna out with a flourish, making sure she heard the "hard work" I’d put in all day. We sat down, looked into each other's eyes, and tucked in simultaneously.
Horror of horrors. As my knife hit the center, there was a distinct, metallic crackle. The lasagna wasn't just undercooked; the middle was a solid block of ice. I was officially busted. As I sheepishly retreated to the microwave to perform a high-voltage resurrection on our dinner, I tried to pivot to damage control.
"Champagne?" I offered, grabbing a bottle to lighten the mood.
I popped the cork. In a display of physics that would have baffled a scientist, the cork ricocheted off the wall, banked off the ceiling, and flew back with pinpoint accuracy to strike my date directly in the back of the head.
I went in trying to be a romantic lead; I left as a man who had nearly frozen his date’s digestive system and then physically assaulted her with a grape-based projectile.
I have never been much of a cook. In my house, when people smell something coming from the kitchen, they don’t ask, "What’s cooking?"—they ask, "What’s thawing?"
So, when I landed a job in 2002 as a tour leader for an overland expedition from Istanbul to Cairo, I was focused on the logistics: getting thirty people and a massive truck across the Middle East. It wasn't until I arrived in Istanbul that I received the terrifying fine print: I was also the head chef.
In a moment of pure, survival-driven genius, I held a briefing for the passengers. "This is not a tour," I told them solemnly. "This is a participatory adventure." I drew up rosters, declared that everyone would help shop and cook, and successfully outsourced my own incompetence.
However, I did have to pitch in. Over five months, I became a specialist in one specific area: Spaghetti Bolognese for thirty. It required an enormous pot, a literal shovel’s worth of mince, and the upper-body strength of a weightlifter to stir.
When I finally returned to London, I boasted to my wife about my newfound culinary prowess. Delighted, she stepped aside and let me take over the kitchen. I set to work, channeling the spirit of the Anatolian plateau. The meal was a triumph—rich, savory, and perfectly seasoned.
The only problem was the scale. My hands simply didn't know how to stop at "two servings." I had prepared enough pasta to fuel a small village's migration.
It was a delicious meal, but by week three of "Bolognese Breakfasts," my wife started asking if we could go back to the "What's Thawing?" era of our marriage.
In my early school days, I was the quintessential nerd—more likely to be found in the library than on the rugby pitch. My athletic career started with a distinct lack of promise; I spent my first few rugby matches standing aimlessly on the field, sucking my thumb while my mother watched from the sidelines in a state of terminal embarrassment.
But in Standard 3, aged 10, my gangly, awkward frame suddenly found its purpose. I discovered I could leap. I could leap high, and I could leap far.
That year, for the first time in my life, I wasn't just "the smart kid." I won the high jump and the long jump for my age group. Then, feeling bold, I competed in the age group above mine—and I won both of those, too. I spent the rest of the day vibrating with the anticipation of the prize-giving ceremony.
I went up twice to collect my cups for my own age group. Then came the awards for the seniors. The presenter looked at the list, squinted, and frowned. He looked at me, looked back at the paper, and decided there had clearly been a massive administrative mistake. No one "nerdy" could possibly sweep two age groups.
He skipped the award entirely. I sat back down, trophy-less and invisible once again.
It was a crushing disappointment, but I eventually found my redemption. A few years later, I walked back up to that stage to receive the award for "Most Improved Rugby Player." I had finally traded my thumb for a tackle—and this time, they didn't need a calculator to believe it.
Before I was born, my parents engaged in a titanic struggle over my identity. My father was determined to name me Lambert, after his own father. My mother, however, was equally determined that I would be Graeme.
Thankfully, my mother’s powers of persuasion won the day. I became Graeme Myburgh, and Lambert was relegated to the "middle name" safe zone—sandwiched between Anthony and my surname as a tribute to both my grandfathers.
For years, it stayed hidden, but in my final years of high school, the secret got out. "Lambert" became my nickname. To my surprise, I didn't mind it. My grandfather had passed away by then, and carrying his name felt like a quiet way to keep his memory alive.
It also didn't hurt that Christopher Lambert had just starred in Highlander. Suddenly, my "old-fashioned" middle name wasn't a liability; it was the name of an immortal, sword-wielding hero.
So in the end, Mum won the argument. No doubt about that.
But life has a funny way of balancing things out.
Because despite all that effort…
I still ended up being called Lambert anyway.
I am, by nearly all accounts, a mild-mannered person. I don’t raise my voice much and I certainly don't have a reputation for foul language. But that was before I took a camping trip to Mount Kosciuszko.
Lesson number one: never pitch your tent in a hollow in an area renowned for torrential downpours. By midnight, it felt less like a campsite and more like I was sleeping on a waterbed that was rapidly losing its structural integrity. Water was cascading through the entrance, and the world was pitch black.
Then, a cold spike of adrenaline hit me. I remembered my most precious possession—my non-waterproof iPhone—was somewhere on the floor of this newly formed indoor swimming pool.
I fumbled for my torch. Nothing. I fumbled for the phone, my hands splashing through the rising tide. As the panic set in, a side of me I didn't know existed suddenly took the stage. I began swearing with a ferocity, rhythm, and linguistic variety that would have stunned a dockworker.
The next morning, as we wrung out our sleeping bags, my friend Gavin was still in awe.
"My God, Graeme," he laughed. "I wish I’d recorded that. We could have published a definitive dictionary of the world's most creative swear words based solely on your performance last night."
I went into that tent a calm, spiritual seeker; I emerged the only man in New South Wales to have officially cursed a thunderstorm into submission.
One evening, leaving my office at Old Mutual, I was hit by a wave of ravenous, prehistoric hunger. The kind of hunger that bypasses logic and heads straight for the nearest Spur restaurant. I pulled over and ordered the largest thing on the menu: a "Double Decker" giant burger, flanked by a mountain of chips and enough onion rings to build a small tower.
I inhaled it. By the time I wiped the last bit of sauce from my face, I wasn't just sated; I was physically compromised. I felt like a snake that had swallowed a particularly large goat.
I waddled through my front door, only to be greeted by my girlfriend’s radiant, expectant smile.
"Just in time!" Ally chirped. "I’ve been cooking that fancy meal I promised you all afternoon."
My blood ran cold. I’d completely forgotten. She lived to cook, and more importantly, she lived to watch me eat. She settled into her chair and watched me like a hawk, waiting for that signature look of "Myburgh-pleasure" to cross my face.
I performed like an Oscar-winner. I chewed, I hummed, and I forced every forkful of that "fancy" dinner into a stomach that was already at maximum capacity. Against all odds, I cleared the plate. I had done it. I was safe.
Then, she stood up with a triumphant glint in her eye.
"And now," she announced, "for dessert!"
She marched back into the kitchen and returned with a massive, steaming helping of sticky date pudding, buried under a literal mound of thick, yellow custard.
I went in looking for a quick burger; I left realizing that the only thing heavier than a Spur Double Decker is the weight of a lie topped with extra custard.
When I was an early teen, I went on holiday to Plettenberg Bay with my school friend, Greg Perkes. We stayed with his grandparents, who were the living embodiment of "posh"—all silver tea services, refined accents, and an atmosphere so polite you felt you needed a permit just to sneeze.
We were sitting in the lounge, balancing delicate china plates on our knees and exchanging pleasantries. My arm was hanging casually by the side of my chair when, suddenly, I felt something latch onto my forearm. It was followed by a very specific, very rhythmic sensation between my fingers.
One of the family’s prize poodles had decided I was the love of its life.
In any other house, someone would have shouted or shooed the dog away. But in this house, the commitment to "decorum" was absolute. Greg’s grandparents continued to discuss the weather and the tea with unwavering focus, staring directly ahead as if my arm wasn't currently being courted by a small, curly-haired romantic.
I was trapped. I didn't want to rip my arm away and shatter the fragile polite silence, so I just sat there—nodding, sipping tea, and trying to look "refined" while a dog made a very honest woman out of my left limb.
It took an eternity to delicately extricate myself without making a scene.
I went in expecting a lesson in high-society manners; I left realizing that "posh" is just a fancy word for being able to ignore a poodle’s mid-afternoon climax while asking if I’d like another lump of sugar.
By eighteen, I was already losing my hair. My father was entirely bald, and seeing my future reflected in his shiny scalp every day filled me with a quiet, obsessive panic. I was convinced that no woman would ever look twice at a man whose hairline was in such a rapid retreat.
Then Oliver moved in.
He was my age and, remarkably, even balder than I was. But Oliver didn’t look like a man in despair; he was happy, confident, and had a gorgeous girlfriend who clearly adored him. To me, he was a living miracle.
One evening, we had a heart-to-heart. I confessed my anxieties and told him how much I admired his "Zen" attitude toward his reflection. Oliver leaned back and gave me a wry smile.
"It wasn't always this easy," he admitted. "A while back, I was sitting in the back of the car behind my mum and dad. My father’s perfectly bald head was right there in front of me, staring me in the face. I looked at it with such focused, concentrated vehemence that I felt like a human magnifying glass. I honestly expected his scalp to start smouldering right then and there."
The image of Oliver trying to set his father’s head on fire with the sheer power of his "balding-rage" was too much. I started to laugh. Then he started to laugh. Soon, we were both doubled over, gasping for air in one of those rare, soul-cleansing fits of hysteria.
In that moment, the weight of years of obsession simply evaporated. A few months later, I met Ally, and the issue of my hair—or lack thereof—simply ceased to exist.
It turns out the best treatment for male-pattern baldness isn't a lotion or a pill—it's a housemate with a shiny head and a funny story to tell.
In 2015, I planned a five-day trek along the Tsitsikamma coast. My friend Chrisel—a woman with a legendary appetite and a deep, spiritual devotion to dinner—flew into Cape Town the night before we set off.
Being responsible for the food on our hike, I handed her a small survival pack of trail snacks: a few nut bars, some chocolates, and a packet of crackers and cheese. It was the standard "emergency sugar" kit for a long day in the mountains.
We drove to the start, hiked the first day, and eventually rolled into the overnight hut. Because this was a "luxury" hike, our actual provisions were being dropped off by vehicle each evening. On that first night, a feast fit for a king appeared: piles of fresh meat for a braai, salads, and all the trimmings.
Chrisel let out a sigh of relief that was louder than the crashing surf outside.
"Oh, thank goodness!" she gasped, eyeing the steak. "I thought that little packet you gave me last night was my food for the entire hike!"
I suppose I should have clarified the menu; for eight hours, she’d been hiking through one of the world's most beautiful landscapes, mentally calculating how to make one nut bar last until Thursday.
When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time at my friend Patrick’s house in Constantia. His family was incredibly wealthy and social, the kind of people who hosted high-stakes dinner parties for his father’s corporate clients.
One afternoon, preparation for a particularly "fancy" evening was in full swing. while Patrick and I were busy on the trampoline, I retreated inside to use the guest loo. There, hanging prominently above a set of pristine, plush hand towels, was a massive, handwritten note:
"DON'T USE THE TOWELS ON PAIN OF DEATH!"
Clearly, Patrick’s mother had reached her breaking point with her children’s messy habits and wanted those towels to remain magazine-perfect for the arrival of the dignitaries.
The party began, the champagne flowed, and the house filled with fifty of the city’s most influential people. But, as Patrick told me the next day, his mother had committed a fatal social error: she forgot to remove the note.
For the entire night, fifty sophisticated guests entered that bathroom, read the threat, and—terrified of whatever "death" awaited them at the hands of their hostess—exited in total silence.
The dinner was a triumph and the wine was top-shelf, but by the end of the evening, those towels remained exactly as they started: fluffy, bone-dry, and arguably the most feared objects in Constantia.
At school, it was boys only—so naturally, boys had to play the female roles. For reasons no one ever fully explained, I became the go-to woman.
I played everything from anxious mothers to dramatic widows, but the peak was an elderly spinster on a plane who foils a hijacking attempt. I studied my gran for days—her posture, her voice, the way she pursed her lips at mild disapproval. It worked. I won the annual acting award.
But by my final year, I’d had enough.
“Bugger this,” I thought. “I want a masculine role.”
We were doing Joseph and the Technicolour Dreamcoat, and I went straight for Pharaoh—the Elvis-style showstopper. Pelvic thrusts. Swagger. Power. Redemption.
Opening night: I cycled onto stage in padded cycling shorts (for reasons that made sense at the time), grabbed the microphone, and launched into full Elvis mode. The thrusts were… enhanced. The crowd loved it. Slight complication: my gran was in the second row, witnessing the entire evolution of her observational study in reverse.
But it was a triumph. Overnight, I went from deeply uncool to oddly legendary among the younger boys.
Then came the final night.
I cycled on. Big entrance. Huge energy. Grabbed the wired microphone… and nothing.
Silence.
Without thinking, I whispered loudly, “Switch on the effing microphone!”
At which exact moment… it switched on.
My voice boomed through the entire hall.
There was a stunned pause.
Then the biggest laugh of the entire show.
I set out to prove I was a man's man; I ended up proving that if you’re going to swear in front of your grandmother, you might as well do it in padded bike shorts with a backing band.
At school, some teachers—especially the formidable Miss Mallet—were legendary for their "clean plate" policy. This was no issue for "human garbage cans" like me, but for my classmate Sean Peche, Friday lunch was a weekly brush with death. Sean harbored a primal, soul-deep hatred for fish, and he spent every Friday gagging his way through a greasy fillet under the unblinking gaze of Miss Mallet.
One Friday, Sean arrived with a plan. He meticulously ate the flesh of his gem squash, leaving the hollowed-out green skin behind. Then, with the precision of a structural engineer, he began packing his fried fish into the shell. He compressed it so tightly it achieved the density of a black hole, before flipping the squash upside down to make it look like a harmless, untouched vegetable.
It was a masterpiece of camouflage. Unfortunately, Miss Mallet was a veteran of the "fish ruse" wars.
She marched over, flipped the squash, and exposed the compressed contraband. In a move of true pedagogical cruelty, she announced that nobody—not one of us—could leave for playtime until Sean had consumed every single, high-density mouthful.
We sat there in agonizing solidarity, watching Sean’s heroic, pale-faced struggle against the laws of biology. How he didn't decorate the dining hall floor I’ll never know.
Sean may have lost the battle against the gem squash, but he won the respect of every hungry boy who just wanted to go outside and kick a ball.
In high school, we were plagued by a phantom prankster whose commitment to the bit was truly terrifying. We never did find out who it was, but their magnum opus remains etched in my memory (and my nostrils) to this day.
It started as a faint, metallic tang in our maths classroom. By Tuesday, it was a distraction. By Thursday, it was a biological hazard. The odor became so thick and aggressive that the entire class was forced to evacuate, relocating to the school lawn to solve equations in the fresh air.
Eventually, the school authorities traced the epicenter of the stench to the front of the room. They began detaching the massive, heavy blackboard from the wall, and as the wood pulled away from the stone, the culprit was revealed.
A large, green, thoroughly putrefied piece of fish—which had been ripening in the dark for days—slid slowly down the wall. It landed with a sickening squelch directly into the open satchel of a very unfortunate student standing below.
The culprit was never caught, leaving the mystery unsolved for decades.
I suppose we’ll never know who the phantom was, but I’d like to think that somewhere out there, a retired prankster is still smiling, knowing he’s the only person in history to make a roomful of teenagers actually want to go outside and do trigonometry.
I was on a guided hike to the summit of the Drakensberg. At the very top, a pristine rock pool sat perched right at the lip of a massive waterfall, its water spilling over the edge into the abyss below. It was a scene of rugged beauty—and the perfect stage for some high-altitude bravado.
There was a girl in the group I was particularly keen to impress. I figured a fearless, mid-air leap into that infinity pool would cement my status as the alpha-adventurer of the expedition. I took a breath, channeled my inner action hero, and launched myself off the ledge.
The moment I hit the surface, the laws of thermodynamics struck back. The water wasn't just cold; it was a liquid ice-pick that instantly vacuum-sealed my lungs. Every ounce of "cool" evaporated in a millisecond.
As the current began nudging me toward the edge of the falls, I produced a noise usually reserved for a cat being dunked in an ice bath. I scrambled for the rocks, limbs flailing like a panicked crab, desperate to escape the liquid nitrogen before I became a permanent part of the scenery at the bottom of the mountain.
I went in hoping to look like a mountain god; I left looking like a man who had just been electrocuted by a puddle at three thousand metres.
Ally and I were married in the lush, sun-dappled gardens of a Cape Town hotel. It was a perfect day, captured for posterity by my wonderful step-dad, Mike. Mike isn't a professional videographer, but we knew his footage would be raw, intimate, and deeply personal.
We just didn’t realize it would also be a character study of a complete stranger.
As we watched the video back, we noticed a recurring theme. The camera would start on us—the happy couple, exchanging vows and radiant with love—and then, as if caught in an irresistible magnetic field, the lens would slowly, inexorably drift toward the hotel pool.
There, sprawled on a deck chair in the background, was a very, very large man in a very, small bathing suit.
He didn't just appear once. He was the unintended protagonist of our wedding. Every time the ceremony reached a peak of emotional intensity, the camera would pan away from my tearful "I do" to find him adjusting his sunglasses or contemplating a club sandwich. He had a gravitational pull so strong that even Mike’s best intentions couldn't escape his orbit.
I went into that day thinking I was the center of Ally’s universe; I left realizing we were both just minor satellites orbiting a man in a Speedo by the deep end.
Ally—who was my partner of 17 years, had many talents. Timing, as it turns out, is one of them. She discovered it very early in life.
Her parents had been locked in a grueling, weeks-long battle with her potty training. It was a saga of frustration, failed attempts, and a growing sense of desperation. Ally, sensing the tension, seemed determined to hold out until the stakes were as high as possible.
The opportunity finally arrived when her father hosted a prestigious dinner party for his business colleagues. The house was filled with the clinking of crystal, the smell of a fine roast, and the hushed tones of serious men discussing serious business. Ally had been tucked away in bed, or so they thought.
In the middle of a particularly refined conversation between her father and his boss, the lounge doors swung open.
There stood Ally, clad in her pajamas and radiating a sense of immense professional achievement. In her hands, she held her potty—which was currently occupied by a very successful "delivery."
She marched straight up to her father, hoisted the prize aloft for the boss to inspect, and announced with pure, unadulterated pride:
"Look, Daddy! I made a woofy in my potty!"
After many weeks of resistance, you have to admire the commitment. Ally didn’t just get potty trained. She made sure there was an audience to witness the milestone.
In 1996, I flew to London to meet Ally—my girlfriend and future wife-to-be—who had been living and working there for a year while I remained back in Cape Town. The plan was simple: reunite, then head off travelling together.
This was, of course, a different world. A world before everyone carried a mobile phone in their pocket. Back then, communication relied heavily on those iconic red phone boxes scattered across London like little beacons of connection.
On one particular day, I decided to visit the Imperial War Museum while Ally finished work. We planned to meet later and begin our adventure.
At some point, I stepped into a phone box to give her a call.
I was mid-conversation—chatting away, probably discussing travel plans—when suddenly, without warning, I felt rough hands grab me and yank me out of the booth.
Before I knew it, I was pushed up against the glass exterior.
Two policemen.
Serious. Urgent.
“Who are you speaking to?!”
Now, it turns out that just a minute before I had stepped into that very phone box, someone had made a bomb threat from it.
And now here I was—freshly installed inside the crime scene—cheerfully calling my girlfriend.
Not ideal timing.
They questioned me, then spoke to Ally, who—thankfully—confirmed my entirely innocent, slightly bewildered story. Gradually, the tension eased. The grip loosened. The suspicion drained.
Eventually, they stepped back.
“You’re free to go,” one of them said.
Then, in a moment that could only happen in Britain, the same officer reached into his pocket, pressed a 20-pence piece into my palm, and offered a polite nod.
"Terribly sorry about that, sir," he said. "A small token of our apology so you can finish your call."
And just like that, I went from suspected terrorist to mildly inconvenienced customer—politely compensated and returned to the phone box.
My friend Chrisel had just finished her wildlife guiding course in the Eastern Cape and was eager to put her new skills to the test. She knew my weakness: nothing gets my blood pumping like the big cats, especially the elusive, secretive leopard. A sighting is the holy grail of any safari.
We were scanning the bush in Addo Elephant National Park when Chrisel suddenly jolted in her seat.
"Leopard!" she barked.
A surge of pure, electric excitement crashed through me. My camera was ready, my heart was hammering against my ribs, and I was already scanning the golden shadows for a flick of a spotted tail. Then, after a perfectly timed, heart-stopping pause, she finished the sentence.
"...tortoise!"
My adrenaline didn't just drop; it evaporated. There it was: a leopard tortoise, ambling across the road with all the urgency of a Sunday afternoon nap. It was a perfectly handsome reptile, with a beautifully patterned shell that lived up to its name, but it lacked a certain... predatory menace.
I spent the next ten minutes staring at the shell, waiting for it to roar. It didn't, but I’m pretty sure I heard the tortoise laughing at me.
What’s in a Name? Quite a Lot, Apparently
Ally, my wife-to-be, had the unfortunate surname “Hoar.”
Now, she was very keen to get married — and not just for the usual romantic reasons. You see, her full name was Ally Hoar… which, on formal envelopes, inevitably became:
A. Hoar
Yes. Exactly.
So when she accepted my proposal, I did find myself wondering — just quietly — whether it was my sparkling personality and devastating good looks that sealed the deal… or simply the chance to upgrade her surname.
I decided not to ask.
Things took an even more amusing turn when her dad remarried later in life. One couldn’t help but wonder if a similar question crossed his mind.
After all, his new wife’s name was…
Aisa Hoar.
No joke. Completely real.
Every year, I’d travel back to South Africa for several weeks to visit family. During these trips, my dog, Mack, would stay with Liza, who shared "custody" of him with me. It was a perfect arrangement, but the separation always felt like a lifetime.
The absolute highlight of my return to Australia was the moment I walked through the door to be reunited with him. It was a scene of pure, unadulterated chaos.
There was frantic panting, heavy slobbering, and a series of high-pitched, desperate whines. There was uncontrolled jumping, a fair amount of spinning, and enough vigorous bum-shaking to power a small village. It was a display of emotional vulnerability that would have made a Zen master weep.
And honestly, once I calmed down and stopped licking his face, Mack seemed pretty excited to see me, too.
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My step-dad, Mike, was a devoted golfer and a long-standing member of an incredibly prestigious club—the kind of place where a crooked tie is a minor scandal. One afternoon, the Club President pulled him aside, looking deeply pained.
"Mike," he whispered, "several members have reported seeing you... sifting through the bins for discarded food. We’re concerned. Is everything alright at home? Do you need a—well, a small advance?"
Mike felt the eyes of the entire clubhouse on him. He looked sheepish, then cleared his throat.
"Everything’s fine," he explained. "I’ve started a worm farm for my garden, and it turns out they have a very refined palate for banana peels. I was just—well, I was just retrieving the leftovers."
The President stared at him, caught between relief and pure aristocratic confusion.
The President was relieved to hear Mike wasn't broke, though he did suggest that next time, Mike should try to look a little less "homeless" while catering for his compost.
For years, I’ve dedicated myself to a spiritual practice of mindfulness. My goal is simple: to walk in nature, stay grounded in my senses, and eventually become a sort of Zen master of the "Now."
A few years ago, I took my dog, Mack, for our usual route. Mack was in his element—trotting, sniffing every bush with surgical precision, and living entirely in the moment. I started with the best of intentions, but somewhere between the first tree and the third park bench, I got sucked into the vortex of my own head. I was drafting work emails, calculating my to-do list, and reliving old arguments.
Suddenly, I "woke up." I realized I’d been mentally absent for fifteen minutes. I hadn’t seen a single flower or felt the breeze; I had been a ghost in my own body.
I looked down at Mack, who was currently savoring the complex olfactory profile of a blade of grass, his tail wagging in pure, unadulterated presence. I was instantly reminded of The Fool from the Tarot deck—the wanderer stepping off a cliff while his dog yaps at his heels.
I realized then that I wasn’t the Zen master in this relationship. I was the Fool.
The real master was at the other end of the leash—and unlike me, he didn't need a book on mindfulness to enjoy the smell of a good bush.
The family held their memorial for Sheila this weekend at Alphen Way. Lots of beautiful shared memories and tributes to a wonderful person and a life well lived.
Sheila, this is for you — to honour your 92 years and the incredible life you lived before being reunited with your beloved Henk.
When I think of you, I think of all the small, meaningful things that made you so uniquely you. Your love of ironing, darning and mending, always taking such care with everything. The colourful bottles that stood in cheerful rows along your kitchen shelf, and the little treasures and teaspoons you collected on your travels — each one with a story.
Your home and garden were a reflection of you — warm, cared for, and full of pride. There was never a plate left in the sink, and everything had its place. And of course a “Sheila” salad was never complete without its signature touches: Little cubes of cheddar, chopped onion and sliced mushrooms.
I will think of the quiet, special moments too — how Sam would melt with contentment from your arm tickles in the back of the car, purring with happiness. How you were always on hand to look after her so I could get some sleep after Matt was born. How, on your walks together, you planted seeds of wonder and magic in her heart, filling her world with fairies and imagination.
It is about the family you loved cherished so deeply. How you loved Mathew with such pride, and how that same pride extended to each of your eight grandchildren. Not a single Sunday morning call with Antony passed without you asking about them — what they were doing, how they were, what little stories there were to share. You were always interested, always present.
It is about your love story with Henk — a love so deep and constant. You did everything side by side, a true partnership in every sense. Your strength during his illness and the fierce, protective love you showed him will never be forgotten.
Plett won’t feel the same without you and our family gatherings will always have a space where you should be — our matriarch, at the centre of it all.
It is about your spirit of adventure — your love of travel, of road trips in the Musso with Henk. Skydiving at 87 says everything about your bravery! How incredible it was for one last spin in the boat in Plett - the delight on your face is something I will never forget.
It is about the little things that made us smile — how you and Henk were always five minutes early to everything, how your cheeks would turn pink after a glass of wine, how you loved your pretty lights, sitting with your chair with your cross word puzzles, your weekly You adiction, your love of Binnelanders and the Grand Pree.
Your belly laugh when something tickled you! The incredible garden you created, drawing much admiration from all who walked past. How much you loved your tea and always had your cup and saucer ready at the kettle for the next brew.
You were beautiful, inside and out — you looked gorgeous wearing pinks and purples, never without your earrings and pearls. How you never missed your weekly hair appointment, and how, in all the years, not a single grey hair ever showed — always so perfectly, gracefully you.
But more than anything, we’ll remember your generosity and your love. How you spoiled us — at restaurants, at Christmas, on birthdays. Always thinking of others. And how no one ever left your house after a visit to Bloem without chocolates, Rolo’s, smarties and later on bags of Checkers mixed choccies to pass on to the other family members who could not have been there.
We will miss you deeply. But we will carry you with us — in the way we care for others, in the stories we tell, and in all the little things that will always remind us of you.
A wonderful camping weekend with the boys. Bents Basin has the biggest water hole in NSW so the swimming was glorious. It rained hard during the night but I was all cosy in my spacious new tent.
