My dinner party

I think I have discovered a branch of the Government that might be described as a useful asset. Certainly, their PR department works well as it may be a little too soon to assess their actual performance. This probable paragon is The DFID – department for international development. They have been helping out with aid for the South Asian earthquake. All the interviews I have heard figured the Minister Hilary Benn, son of Tony Benn. He obviously reads his brief and gives answers without the usual ministerial guff, waffle and self-glorification. Well done him. I enjoy listening to his father Tony who is able to dredge up something interesting from the past to make or amplify his points but I am not sure about what history will write about Dad’s contribution to the socialist movement. His writings are well worth the time spent on them.
With the time spent driving about with my dog whilst Norma was doing her quilt show thing, I had extra time to think. I usually spend this sort of time planning things I know will never happen or what I would do if I were to win big on the Lottery – something else that will not occur! Once I got past being the only man to survive a shipwreck with a boatload of female film stars, commissioning solicitors to buy the ideal house regardless of whether it were up for sale (send them there with impossibly unreasonable sums of cash in a big suitcase) and having a car, a yacht and a ‘plane individually fitted-out, I got down to my ideal dinner party in my new house. Usual rules about being able to invite anyone, living or dead. Having sorted out the menu, table décor and the wine list, I got down to guests. Norma and me plus eight. Easy bit first – a stone cold banker of an invitation. Sophia Loren. Surely the most beautiful woman around and one who has had a real life and not just some plastic representation. So, that is the lady on my right. Things arranged so that the ladies do not have to withdraw when the men get dirty over their brandy. The males I thought of would be above that sort of thing anyway. There is a place for boasting and rude tales but not at an event of this importance. A second woman would be Eartha Kitt. She had a dreadful start to life and spent much of her time on black emancipation in USA. We here have little idea of what that involved.
The men. My maternal grandfather. He was a warrant officer in the Army in the late 1800s and early 1900s through to the end of the Great War in 1918. Much of his service was abroad on what we would call active service. They were hard times that generated hard men. Next would be my claimed look-alike Orson Welles. He had a dark and brooding presence but a very quick wit.
Rudyard Kipling would have to be there. Not just his story-telling and verse but the fact that he was a very keen observer of our Colonial past and was able to view it from both sides – master and servant.
I was always entranced by Peter Ustinov so he would have to get a seat at the banquet. His range of experiences and skill as a raconteur were unique. I think that the wealth of talents already gathered would need someone to keep them under some form of control. That means Michael Parkinson. Surely the best. Just one place left. I am not sure how this might work but I would like to have one of my great great great grand children there at, say, the age of 25. No demands as to the line of descent. Just to get an insight into the world that far ahead and see how the genes had lasted against dilution.
So, that is it. Quite an early start to things. Drinkies in the ante-room and all that. Gossip afterwards in a warm room with really comfortable club chairs. Continuation of fine wines and incredible cigars. Maybe something short and appropriate to each guest in the way of a film show. Champagne breakfast. Dispersal back to their ethereal and spiritual worlds. Perfection.