- Holly Searle
- London, United Kingdom
- Holly Searle is a writer and an artist who was made in Soho and thereafter born in the heart of London. She has been blessed with two quite remarkable children and grandchildren whom she adores. She enjoys the company of her friends and the circus that is life, has a degree in Film and Television, and has exhibited her artwork in several exhibition.
Wednesday, 30 July 2014
Come Dine With Me By Holly Searle
If I could choose who to invite for dinner, living or dead, I would ask the following people; Albert Einstein, Stewart Lee, Charles Darwin, David Attenborough, Banksy, Amelia Earhart, Robert Shaw, J. D. Salinger, Maya Angelou, Katharine Hepburn, Bette Davis, Edward Hopper, Mark Rothko, Billie Holiday, Kathy Burke, Truman Capote, Vincent van Gogh, Henri Matisse, Bill Hicks, Dorothy Parker, Kevin Spacey, Stephen Hawking, Hillary Clinton, Harper Lee, James Stewart, Judi Dench, Stephen King, Dawn French, The Dalai Lama, Gene Kelly, Maggie Smith, Steve Martin, Russell T Davies, Nat King Cole and Mark Ruffalo.
Now, I know what you're thinking. You're going to need a really big table Holly.
What I find interesting about this list, is it says more about me, than it does about them. All of these people share certain traits that I find both appealing and interesting. And they have all influenced my life thus far with their intellect, humour and because of their sense of adventure. And Some of them are connected by knowing each other, or would have known each other. And some would have shared, and still do, similar passions.
They are also people who have dared to follow their beliefs regardless of what others may have thought, and were and are all incredibly talented.
And above all else, they are a creative and a innovative bunch of individuals that I would certainly welcome with both an open heart and an open mind.
Imagine the conversation wouldn't it be great? The stories they would tell? The different perspective that they could share over a three course meal? The commonalities that they would have, and the unlikely friendships that would be forged across time and space all in that one evening.
The Friend Requests that would be sent out post dinner party via Facebook, and the increased followings on Twitter, I can see it all now. Although Darwin may be quite a reluctant Tweeter, or he may welcome it with an open key pad safe in the knowledge that he could conduct an online Natural Selection Tweetfest on The Contemporary Behaviour of the Human Race.
Picture the after dinner game of Charades. Or that game that my family and I always play during Christmas when you write the name of a well known person on a piece of paper, and then stick it on to the forehead of someone else without them seeing who it is. If you haven't played this game it is great, as each person asks the rest of the group one question that can only be answered with either a Yes or a No, until the person has asked enough questions to have worked out who they are.
Imagine the comments and the questions? And I wonder who would be the most competitive. The hilarity would be tenfold, and in all probability the flirting as well.
There would be copious amounts of laughter, entwined with smattering of serious conversation, and differing opinions and ideals. And at the end of the evening, I would pretty much come to conclude that some of my guests were more than I hoped they could ever be, whilst some were less.
But that is a risk that I would be willing to take to be able to spend an evening with all of these people.
My one worry would be Vincent, but I came to conclude that the other artists in residence that evening would be on hand to enlighten him to the joy that he brought to they own collective mindset when they first loaded up their own brushes with paint, and stood in front of the daunting plain canvas that was waiting in front of them.
And Russell could tell him that Richard Curtis had penned a beautiful episode of Doctor Who, that had made a whole new generation aware of him.
Bill, Albert, Stewart, J.D and Stephen King, would no doubt be the rebels of the evening, sharing tales of social dystopia, and the Kennedy assassination. Whilst Maggie, Judi, Katherine, Bette, Dorothy, Kathy, Dawn and I would pondered about Kevin, but not before all agreeing how charming he was and asking him to re-enact the line "And like that... he's gone."
The situations we would all find ourselves in that night would be both unimaginable and beyond my wildest dreams.
Looking at the stars with Albert and Stephen Hawking, whilst they both explained their theories, with Nat singing Stardust in the background, and Bette making a joke about only ever having asked for them.
I can't possibly imagine that it would be boring for one moment.
And being able to ask Amelia what did happen to her on her last flight? Or to be able to tell Billie that her voice contained all the emotion that every lonely women has every felt, when she sings Lover Man.
And being able to say “Sorry, who are you?” When I open the door to Banksy.
And being able to thanks J.D and Truman for their books, and to confessing to Robert Shaw that I fell in love with him after he played Quint, but not before telling Bill that I and the world will always miss him.
Maya would comfort Billie, and they would no doubt discuss Oprah. And I would tell Hilary that she must run, and Kevin could give her some Frank Underwood toptastictips of how to gain the upper hand in The White House.
And I would tell Gene that he blew me away when I was a kid when I saw him tap dance on roller skates. I would tell him about The Artist, and ask him what he thought.
And Harper, I have no doubt would have to see Truman home.
And at the end of the night, I would whisper in James Stewart's ear that I make a point of seeing It's a Wonderful Life every Christmas.
I have no idea what I would serve. But I am sure that the evening wouldn't depend upon the food, it would rely on the company.
And I am sure I have missed someone off, but I can't for the life of me think who.
And then there is the fictional dinner guests I would ask on another night.
But that's another story.
A girl can only dream.