The original Daniel interpreted the King’s dreams in Babylon. He was a visionary and a prophet, who was tossed into a lion’s den like a piece of meat.
He was said to have prophesised the world’s end numerous times over. If he was alive today Daniel would be working as a Hollywood script-writer, making millions, cashing in on our current obsession with end-of-world paraphernalia.
My boyfriend Daniel doesn’t see the end of the world coming. When I tell him of my fear of death, the deep clutching fear that grabs my heart when I try to imagine not being here, he shakes his head.
‘I don’t worry about that.’
Jewish Daniel prayed in the lion’s pit and was saved from being the lion’s lunch-time snack. He walked out of the den, brushing the dust off himself and whistled a tune.
Daniel has a step-brother named Daniel. Luckily he currently lives in Darwin, because two Daniels in one family can be a little bit much.
My sister Kim’s boyfriend is also called Daniel, when we talk about our partners we have to specify who we are talking about.
‘’My’’ Daniel,’ we say with our hands on our heart.
‘Daniel B or Daniel H?’ Mum asks.
Of course the two Daniels share the same interests: fishing, footy, laughing at the same YouTube clips, a love for the bogan drink Jim Beam. The laid-back name originating from a man who prayed in a pit has connected them. There’s a photo of the Daniels on my grandparent’s mantelpiece, my pa in the middle of the two lads, all of them in suits at Hanna’s wedding. Big smiles all round.
No one else in my family gets that special spot, a framed photo in the middle, easily viewed from the dining table.
There’s a soft spot for the ‘D’ club in this world.