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.
My parents were wealthy by anyone’s standards. Their Stella Nova photography studios were a roaring success across South Africa and Rhodesia, and our home on Sterling Street in Waverley was the kind of mansion that makes your adult self wonder if your childhood was actually a period drama.
I had a Scottish nanny named Margaret—professionally trained, apparently, which in hindsight means good with knives and bad with empathy. 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.
We had a chameleon. It died. Apparently one of the many servants left a window open in winter, which was chameleon kryptonite. I took that as a personal tragedy.
I worshipped my siblings. Briony was 17 years older and Niels 15. They were beautiful, exotic adults who could do no wrong.
Margaret once told me she wanted to paint my fingernails to make them shine. I took it as affection. The betrayal came later when I discovered 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 self-awareness meets weaponised sibling honesty.
At around age four or five, I developed an infection down there. I was uncircumcised and apparently, Margaret hadn’t been doing a great job with hygiene. I remember the hospital. The mask. The weeing through a bandaged penis. The terror. I developed a lasting phobia of hospitals—hilarious in hindsight, considering I now work in one.
Margaret, it turned out, had a few other character flaws too. Around that time, money started disappearing from the house. My parents suspected the maid, 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 some banknotes and asked Margaret for change. She handed him a marked note. Fired. Ticket back to Scotland paid for, which—knowing what I know about my dad—means she probably dodged worse.
Only years later did I learn she used to claim to be my mother when strangers commented on how cute I was. Which, when paired with the theft, thumb sabotage, and poor penile maintenance, tells me she was not quite the Scottish Mary Poppins I’d imagined.
My parents talked about her sometimes. My mum once mentioned a shopping trip before one of our yacht holidays—Brione, the 83-foot beast my dad named after Briony and Niels. My mum spotted a swimsuit she loved. Margaret discouraged her from buying it. First day on the yacht? Margaret walks out in that exact costume. Knowing my dad, the only reason there’s no affair story is probably because Margaret just didn’t meet the aesthetic standards of his usually inappropriate liaisons.
Until the age of five, my world revolved around Bruce. We played cowboys and Indians. I’d wait for him at the gate like a lovesick puppy. Meanwhile, my parents were flying first class to Cannes and skiing in Mürren. I wasn’t allowed on the yacht until I could swim. So off I went to “swimming lessons,” which consisted of being thrown repeatedly into a pool by a psychopath while my mother waited outside. I still hate swimming. I'm very good at it.
While they were off yachting, Frances and Arthur Rouse came to housesit. Arthur was a retired pilot with too much time and a brilliant system of gold stars, invented specifically to manipulate small children into behaving. He organised cricket matches, reward schemes, mini morality plays. The man was a saint with a clipboard. I adored him.
Around this time, my parents hired a Danish au pair—possibly named Gitte. She wore gold-coloured knickers, which triggered my very first powerful sexual feeling. I remember the pull in my groin to this day. I was five.
In 1971, Briony got married in a grand society wedding. I was the pageboy in a ridiculous olive green suit. Briony had grown my straight, white-blond hair down to my shoulders. They covered our giant pool to make a dancefloor. Her husband, George Poulos, was charming, handsome, and vaguely Greek. My last memory of that night is falling asleep on the satin pillow meant to hold the ring—after finishing off people’s gin and tonics. My parents thought I loved lemon. I suspect it was the alcohol.
Niels lived in a gorgeous cottage on the far side of the pool. Sunday night was movie night: The Persuaders, followed by a Western. It was the social event of the week. One of Niels’ friends, Guy “Titch” Johnson, was always kind to me. He’ll show up again.
But underneath all this splendour, something darker was creeping in.
My anxiety.
I didn’t have a name for it, but I had the symptoms: sheer terror if my mother left me in a shop aisle. Panic about iron lungs. Helen Keller stories ruined me. I was constantly waiting for the next catastrophe.
Only much later did I understand: I was absorbing the dread in the house.
Because my dad—Mogens Rosenfeldt—was in deep legal trouble.
He’d been caught violating South Africa’s exchange control laws. The Sunday papers called him a “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, hid money in the fuselage, wore coin-lined waistcoats. Diamonds, porn, currency—all under the radar. Until Bob Jackson, one of his mules, got caught and flipped on him.
My dad’s Danish passport was confiscated. He had to report weekly to John Vorster Square. But Denmark didn’t have exchange control laws, so their embassy gave him a new passport. An Afrikaans lawyer friend warned him he’d be made an example of.
So one night, he packed a bag, drove his yellow Porsche 911 to Salisbury, Rhodesia, flew to France, and disappeared onto Brione.
The staff cried when he left. My mum stayed behind. I was five. And terrified.
This is where the story shifts. The next chapter is Mallorca. But before we get there, just know this:
From the outside, my early years looked gilded. Wealth, travel, luxury. But inside, I was scared. Wired. Watchful. And very much aware that everything could change in a second.
And it would.