I was born on 16 March 1967 at the Mary Mount Clinic in Johannesburg, dragged reluctantly into the world via caesarean section because my mother—46 at the time—had ovarian cysts reportedly larger than my head. Not exactly a smooth entrance.
By most standards, my parents were seriously well-off. Stella Nova, their photography business, was thriving across South Africa and Rhodesia. And our home on Sterling Street in Waverley wasn’t just comfortable—it was grand in that quietly showy way: sweeping driveway, big garden, too many rooms. Looking back, it almost feels surreal.
My first memory is looking through the bars of my crib at Bruce Barclay, the boy who’d become my lifelong best friend. His parents, Will and Gloria, were about 15 years younger than mine but part of their close circle. Bruce was two-and-a-half years older, and even then, cooler than me.
My first pet was a chameleon that lived in a potted plant indoors. It died—apparently one of the many servants left a window open in winter, which turned out to be chameleon kryptonite. I took it as a personal tragedy. I absolutely worshipped my siblings. Briony was 17 years older, Niels 15. They were beautiful, exotic adults who could do no wrong. In hindsight, I was probably a bit of an embarrassment—especially when my mum, already in her late forties, turned up at school events with a toddler in tow.
I had a Scottish nanny named Margaret—professionally trained, imported specifically to look after yours truly. She once told me she wanted to paint my fingernails to make them shine. I took it as affection. The betrayal came later when I realised she’d secretly painted my thumb with aloe to stop me sucking it. The first time I tasted that bitter sabotage, I was crushed. Still sucked my thumb, though—until Briony casually remarked that if I didn’t stop, I’d grow up looking like Donald Duck. I stopped that day. In fact, I went to Margaret and asked her to paint the thumb again, just in case I forgot. Early vanity meets weaponised sibling honesty.
Around age four or five, I developed an infection down there. I was uncircumcised and, apparently, Margaret hadn’t been doing a stellar job with hygiene. I remember the hospital. The masks. Screaming as I wee'd through a bandaged penis. I developed a lifelong phobia of hospitals—which is mildly hilarious, considering I now work in one.
Only years later did I learn Margaret used to claim to be my mother when she was out and about with me in a pram strangers commented on how cute I was. She had a few other character flaws too. Around that time, money started disappearing from the house. My parents suspected one of the maids, who was fired in dramatic fashion, complete with her parting words: “As God is my witness, madam, I am innocent.” Spoiler: she was.
The theft continued. My dad marked a few banknotes and asked Margaret for change. She handed him a marked note. Fired. Ticket back to Scotland paid for—luckily for her my dad was a compassionate man.
They still talked about her from time to time. Much later, my mum told me about a shopping trip before one of our yacht holidays aboard Brionie—the 83-foot beast named after Briony and Niels. She’d spotted a swimsuit she loved. Margaret talked her out of buying it. First day on the yacht? Margaret appeared wearing that exact costume. Knowing my dad, the only reason there’s no affair story is probably because Margaret didn’t quite meet the aesthetic standards of his usual inappropriate liaisons.
Until the age of five, my world revolved around Bruce. We played cowboys and Indians, and I’d wait for him at the gate like a lovesick puppy. Meanwhile, my parents were off flying first class to Cannes or skiing in Mürren. I wasn’t allowed on the yacht until I could swim—so off I went to “swimming lessons,” which mostly involved being hurled into a pool by a psychopath while my mother waited outside. I still hate swimming. But I’m very good at it.
While they were off yachting, Frances and Arthur Rouse came to housesit. Arthur was a retired airline pilot with a great sense of humour and a gold-star system cunningly designed to keep small children in line. He organised cricket matches, reward charts, and little morality plays. A saint with a clipboard. I adored him.
Around the same time, my parents hired a Danish au pair—named Gitte. She wore gold-coloured knickers, which made a lasting impression. I was five. Let’s just say something stirred that wasn’t entirely platonic, and leave it there.
In 1971, Briony got married in a grand society wedding. I was the pageboy, trussed up in a ridiculous olive-green suit with shoulder-length white-blond hair—her idea, obviously. They covered our giant pool with a dance floor under a massive marquee. Her husband, George Poulos, was charming, handsome, and vaguely Greek—the heir to a prominent Durban restaurant family. My last memory of the night is falling asleep on the satin pillow that had held the rings, after finishing off a few abandoned gin and tonics. My parents assumed I liked lemon. I suspect it was the alcohol.
Niels lived in a beautiful cottage on the far side of the pool. Sunday nights were movie nights—usually a short like The Persuaders, followed by a Western or James Bond. It was the social event of the week. One of Niels’ friends, Guy “Titch” Johnson, was always kind to me. He’ll be back.
But under all the splendour, something darker had started to creep in.
My anxiety.
I didn’t have a name for it, just symptoms: sheer terror if my mother left me alone in a shop aisle, panic about iron lungs, Helen Keller-induced existential dread. I was always waiting for the next catastrophe.
Only later did I realise I’d been absorbing the dread that hung in the house.
Because my father—Mogens Rosenfeldt—was in deep trouble.
He’d been caught violating South Africa’s exchange control laws. The Sunday papers ran headlines like “Danish Millionaire Caught Smuggling.” And smuggling he was—cash, gold coins, even a giant yellow diamond taped inside a rolled-up newspaper. He used his private plane, stashed money in the fuselage, and wore coin-lined waistcoats made from sticky wallpaper. Until one of his mules, Bob Jackson, got caught and flipped.
His Danish passport was confiscated. He had to report weekly to John Vorster Square. But Denmark didn’t have exchange controls, so their embassy gave him a fresh one. An Afrikaans lawyer warned him: they’d make an example of him. This wouldn’t be a fine—it’d be jail.
So one night, he packed a bag, drove his yellow Porsche 911 to Salisbury, flew to France, and vanished—onto Brionie.
I remember the night he left. All the staff were in tears.
My mother and I stayed behind—it would take time to sell everything. The house would go quickly. Stella Nova was sold off piece by piece, each studio its own going concern. I was five. And terrified.
This is where the story shifts. The next chapter is Mallorca. But before we go:
From the outside, my early life looked gilded—wealth, travel, yachts. But inside, I was wired. Watchful. Scared. And already learning that anything can vanish, just like that.