Last week an old friend of mine died. His name was Gary Cook. We met here in Byron Bay, when I was 23. He would have been in his early 30s. He was handsome. And funny. And weird. And self-involved. He used to come to Ringos, where I worked as a waitress. He’d sing to himself, bludge cigarettes, and shine up the serviette holder. He loved looking at himself. He’d laugh and say, ‘God, I’m a handsome man,’ and then he’d laugh this really infectious laugh