It seems that wine isn’t the only field that casts a wider net in search of nomenclature. Yesterday’s cataclysmic sell-off on Wall Street saw major indexes dropping five percentage points in a matter of minutes. What triggered the panic- (or computer-driven) selling has not yet been conclusively established.

One of the causes that’s been mooted is that of a fat-fingered trader. No-one is suggesting that American obesity has achieved new heights (or is that girths?); merely that someone punched the wrong keys when placing a sell order. I can understand this happening to someone using their Blackberry to make an online trade while on the move, but the buttons on a computer keyboard require rather fat fingers.

Whatever the causes, it certainly counted as a Black Swan event. This term, brought into popular use by Nassim Nicholas Taleb, is used to describe an event that is “outside the realm of regular expectations” and which furthermore has an “extreme impact”. Part of his trading strategy involves buying low-cost options that fall outside normal trading ranges. If the market behaves itself he slowly bleeds capital, as these options expire worthless. However, major moves – such as the one that happened at around 2.47 pm (New York time) yesterday – are his bread and butter. His low-cost, out-of-the-money options suddenly explode in value.

That’s when he makes his money. Assuming his fingers do the right thing, of course!

Grilled fig, goat's cheese and Black Forest ham on homebaked sourdough bread

This is what happens when you work adjacent to an open-plan kitchen, and that lunchtime feeling begins to take hold. I baked the sourdough bread earlier today; the figs and goat’s cheese were about to become fridge relics. The first slice was a hasty cheese and ham only, but I found the combination to be a bit salty. The mild sweetness of the fig was the perfect antidote to the saltiness. Yum!

1984 was the year that I matriculated. It’s also the title of George Orwell’s book that was part of our English curriculum somewhere along the line. And it was the year that the South African runner Zola Budd took part in the Los Angeles Olympic Games.

Officially, of course, she represented Great Britain, on the basis of having a British grandfather. At that time South Africans were sanctioned from most international sport, which meant that the official bodies refused to recognise her world record time for the women’s 5000m. She had achieved this earlier in 1984 – at the age of 17 – and she ran barefoot, so she was something of a sensation.

I saw a money-making opportunity in her Olympics participation; specifically in the form of taking bets from my fellow pupils. I may have given just a little consideration to the likelihood that I was not going to be running a balanced ‘book’, but I did it anyway. Bets were going to be laid on one runner only. It was the school against me.

So, I priced up the field and for the days leading up to the event just about every teacher allowed me a couple of minutes at the start of class to chalk my odds on the board and take bets. The boys couldn’t get enough of Zola, at odds that couldn’t have been generous. I was becoming nervously aware of the extent of my loss should Zola even finish in the medals.

I’ll never forget my physical state as I sat, in the middle of the night, listening to the live radio commentary. My heart felt as if it was in danger of thumping its way right out of my chest. My mouth was dry and my hands were shaking, not helped by the fact that Zola was in the lead for much of the race. It was a seminal broadcasting moment in my life. Others may talk of listening to radio casts of the first moon landing, or the Rumble in the Jungle. I, aged 17, was listening to Zola Budd in the Women’s 3000m finals of the Olympic Games.

Whatever the cause, Zola couldn’t maintain the pace. She eventually faded, in the process saving me from teenaged financial ruin. Only one person bet on the eventual winner, Maricica Puică.

Whether my teachers were caught up in the excitement of Zola’s Olympics, just bemused, or genuinely supportive of my entrepreneurial activity, I don’t know, but I’ve always admired my alma mater for the various ways in which independent thinking – and action – were encouraged. It wasn’t much like 1984 at all.

The popularity of cooking or food shows on television is perhaps one of the modern world’s surprise successes. Granted, there may be a schoolboyish fascination with Nigella Lawson’s cleavage (especially when accompanied by purring commentary about whipping cream to soft peaks). And, one watches Gordon Ramsay knowing that some proper culinary knowledge will be imparted in the midst of his obscenity-seasoned language and verbal shredding of hapless minions. Even Rick Stein’s quiet and restrained presentation has its place.

However, for all our enjoyment in watching proper chefs cooking, there is absolutely no voyeuristic pleasure in watching people eat on the telly. We’d rather watch the goriest bits of Grey’s Anatomy than see food being masticated. You could shake a martini at any number of actors who’ve consumed beverages on screen, but TV dinners are best kept on viewers’ laps.

Voyeurism and exhibitionism (V&E) are two heads of the same beast. Some people (myself included) switch between the two, but the world appears to have more voyeurs than exhibitionists. These pursuits are most regularly associated with something a bit risqué, like displays of extreme amounts of bare flesh, or unexpected glimpses of someone else’s naughty bits. But in the world of V&E, the crème de la crème, the Beluga, the platinum card; is real live public sex. It’s the crack without the cocaine, the cash without Johnny, the rattle without the snake. Apart from the accidents that can result from voyeuristic distraction (like falling out of an upstairs window while trying to get a better view), one is well removed from physical danger (especially of the STD variety), and strictly speaking not committing an act of infidelity.

Contrary to the scenario I’ve sketched, I’m not an aficionado of public sex. By its very nature (like unicorns and four-leafed clovers) it’s one of those things that doesn’t come around very often. And not every sighting carries the same level of excitement. Rounding a corner, one’s headlights catching a bare leg akimbo against a car window, followed briefly by startled eyes that rapidly dip out of view, grades high on humour but low on titillation.

What I’m building up to is my only ‘proper’ experience. It happened as I was having lunch at the open-air restaurant of a Thai resort hotel. The restaurant is perched above a curved beach, equivalent to an area about 50 metres off-shore. People were wading a long way in, because the water was no more than chest height. At first there was nothing suspicious about the couple I noticed. He had his back to the beach while they appeared to be doing nothing more than hugging and kissing as they were standing in the water. Sure, they did seem to be moving a bit more than necessary, but it wasn’t until her knee came out of the water that the situation was confirmed (and the languid physical movements intensified). For the next half an hour they moved around a larger area – even seeking shelter in the lee of a moored (empty) fishing boat – before, finally, making their way back to the beach, apparently sated.

For my part, I thoroughly enjoyed my Singha beer and chicken fried rice, even if the seasoning was somewhat unusual.

If Cape Town couturier Susan Hansen ever gets around to writing her memoirs, she may single out my rushed visit on 25 January 1997 as one of the most unusual of her professional career.

In those days the J&B Met was a huge social occasion, but the hospitality side of things still had a lot more room for growth. For example, the picnics in the members’ car park were – quite literally – served out of car boots. Shade from the summer sun was limited to a few beach umbrellas.

Given this background, I may have played a role in pioneering the way things are done now. I arranged several adjacent picnic sites, which I enclosed with picket fencing, and then covered with a free-standing marquee, much to the consternation of the club management. This became my own hospitality area, for which I sold tickets to an extended circle of friends and acquaintances. It was such a good day at the races that I received pre-Met calls for years after I decided it was all too much work.

On the day in question I went through to Kenilworth early in the morning to set everything up. However, I was aware of having left a rather emotional Andrea at home, bereft at not having anything to wear to the races. So, on my way home (on a very tight timeline) I popped into Susan Hansen’s shop in Claremont.

Committing a series of acts that could very easily have become matrimonial suicide, I not only selected an outfit, but also gave instructions for its quite extensive alteration – without the intended wearer being present!

Susan must have thought I was mad, but cheerfully got on with the rush tailoring.

Not only was the outfit loved … and it fitted perfectly. Given my successful gamble I may have been tempted to think my luck was in that day, but I cheered London News home without even one cent at risk.

It occurred to me yesterday, as I was tucking into a particularly delicious Chicken Breyani at the Solms-Delta Oesfees, that I could at that moment have been at Taste of Cape Town. There I would have had the ‘opportunity’ of eating top chefs’ prized creations; food largely influenced by current global trends, styled to within an inch of its life.

The guests would almost all be white, unlike the mixed audience at Solms-Delta, which included several hundred farm workers (and their families) from the Franschhoek valley. I definitely wouldn’t have needed to explain to my kids, as I did upon entering the festival area, that they shouldn’t expect the bands to be playing ‘popular’ music.

I explained to them that the owner, neuroscientist Mark Solms, has committed the operation to keeping Cape cultural heritage alive, as well as empowering his workers by enabling them to participate in the success of the business. The Oesfees (harvest festival) is inclusive, in the sense that free tickets – including food and beverage tokens – are given to a large number of farm workers from surrounding farms. As if this wasn’t already unusual enough, the core of the festival is a line-up of traditional music featuring the distinctive sounds of the largely Coloured musicians.

Featuring in the line-up were three different groups of Solms-Delta farm workers and their families: the Delta Langbroek (long pants, which are generally worn by older people) band, the Delta Soetstemme (sweet voices) and the Delta Bluestars. In fairness, they sounded somewhat like a school variety concert, but their inclusion says a lot for the Solms’ commitment to creating opportunities for different life experiences amongst a group of people who have historically had extremely limited life expectations.

Unfortunately I couldn’t stay for the star attractions – Robbie Jansen and Emo Adams – but I was charmed by Tannie Grietjie, who at 85 has more ‘life’ than most teenagers.

The event also illustrates how modern consumers insist on having their experiences packaged in a predictable and familiar fashion. The Solms-Delta Oesfees consciously walks its own path, which makes it a refreshing – and very necessary – event on the annual winelands calendar.

Professor Mark Solms is operating outside the profession for which he trained, but I’m sure that this festival will go a long way towards influencing the way that wine people’s neurons fire (which is really just a long and contrived way of saying that the Oesfees will change the way people think).