Not necessarily to psychotropic mindbombs, mind you, or big blokes in pubs who think you’re looking at their girlfriends, or random trips to tiny islands in South East Asia. But little things. Yes to a friend. Yes to a drink after work. Yes to a stranger. Yes to yourself. You’d be amazed at where they can lead.
In other news, there are a few things I should probably fill you in on, if you’ve time.
I never did track down the man on the bus. But I kind of like it that way. Because that way, perhaps Maitreya really is walking the streets, looking after each and every one of us. It’s quite good not knowing for sure. Although it does mean I can never look at a bearded stranger without a quick double-take, which one day could potentially land me in some trouble.
Jason returned from Thailand a few months after I got back from Australia, and we met up in Liverpool for a pint. He seemed far happier this time. By complete coincidence, it turned out that he’d been in Melbourne on New Year’s Eve too—though neither of us had known that at the time. It’s strange to think that if a Tube train hadn’t broken down one night in London, it’s possible neither of us would have been there, under the fireworks at Federation Square, welcoming in a new year and a fresh start. Samten the monk might say it was an inevitable coincidence. Marc would say there’s no such thing. Who knows what the Hypnodog would say, so I’ll leave the deciding vote with you.
Ian’s punishment, it turned out, was an old-fashioned one. He handed me the prized red envelope on my return. I opened it to see the words “Go to Australia.” It seems he was determined that if I didn’t do it myself, he would send me to Lizzie anyway. I thought that was incredibly sweet, though, when I told him that, he blushed, and called me a tosser, and said he was only sending me there because “that’s how they used to punish the criminals in the olden days.” And then his phone rang, and he had to go off and answer it.
And since you’re probably wondering, yes, me and Lizzie are still together. Though I should tell you that Lizzie isn’t her real name. She chose it, when I started to write down everything that had happened, because she said she’d always wanted to be called Lizzie. And even though it’s her middle name no one ever calls her that, and if she was going to be in a book, then that’s the name she’d like to have. Which is a very Lizzie thing to do.
Anyway, a few months after New Year’s Eve, Lizzie got a job offer in London. She moved a week later, and she’s behind me right now, watching as I type this. She says hello.
She also thinks you should know that a few months after she moved in, I decided it was my turn to ask her a question. A big question.
She said yes.
Acknowledgements
Danny would like to thank
Ian, Hanne, Wag, and Lizzie; Jake Lingwood and all at Ebury; Simon Trewin; Sophie Laurimore; Jago Irwin and everyone at PFD; Ryan Fischer-Harbage and all at Simon & Schuster; Daniel Greenberg; Sarah Bennie; the award-winning Stine Smemo; Di Riley; Claire Kingston; Dawn Burnett and Little Hannah Telfer; Bob Glanville; Dr. Frank Cottrell Boyce (who wishes he was Swiss); Mike Gayle (for being Mike Gayle); Howie and Liz at UTA; Andrew Collins; Espen Tarnesvik; Dominant Joly; Marc Gehring; Ricky the sound man; Jonathan Davies; Karl Pilkington (keep existing); Paul Lewis (who I must point out for legal reasons has not bullied since 1995); Xavier McMahon and family; cheeky Kieran Harte; Gareth Jones; Dan Glew and everyone at Cactus TV (thanks for giving me a break); Daisy Gates; Lisa Thomas and all at Karushi; Lee Phillips and LeafStorm; James @ Two Associates; Charlie, Matt, and James from Busted (!); my wonderful joinees (making the world a better place one Friday at a time!); the venerable Samten Kelsang and everyone at the excellent and very good value Losang Dragpa Centre; Hypnotist Hugh Lennon and Murphy the Hypnodog; Arlene for the wonton; Dean the soldier; Ian Critchley; Myfanwy Moore; Graham Smith; John Pidgeon; and all at the BBC (still the best place to work in the world).
Special thanks to my mum and dad and to Greta Elizabeth McMahon—between the three of them, they make everything brilliant.
Yes Man Page 42
