I sit here alone thinking about days gone by. A glass of red wine, a sliver of dark chocolate, haunted by the ghosts of people long gone. The ghosts of those who, in spite of their distance and passing, have inspired me and to whom I owe part of my own being. What makes me myself, a carefully curated collection of another’s ideas and my own contributions. None of us are fully formed. What we write will be taken forward and mulled over by another, perhaps with a glass of wine and a sliver of dark chocolate on a similarly lonely Wednesday evening.
I was asked a loaded question today. Who would be your six dream dinner guests, dead or alive? There is no simple answer for me. Too many people I owe ideas to, too many people whose ideas I want to explore further. Do you invite intimate aquaintances – those writers whose books have been friends to me my whole life? Do I invite artists, strangers whose paintings have spoken to me? What will we talk about? Writing, art, travel, politics, the landscape and how we should preserve it? I want all avenues to open and no set menus.
So far, I have Robert Plant, Patti Smith, Gertrude Bell, Emma Thompson, William Morris and Gabriele Muenter, but I’m still thinking…likely I will never be done.
I wonder whether they like red wine and dark chocolate?
Who would you invite if you could choose six dream dinner guests and why?