When I die, I should quite like to be ingested by some of the biggest stars of the silver screen.
Of course I would be cremated first, I don’t expect these gorgeous A-listers to have to get their lips around a whole steak, their time is too precious, their jaws too shapely and their palettes too delicate. Besides, their nutritionists would never allow it.
The most critically acclaimed actors and actresses of the time would be preferable, although I am not fussy. For example if I were to die tomorrow, although that is not something I am interested in doing, then it is a simply wonderful thought that I may be sprinkled over Brad Pitt’s caesar salad as he dines with his family; no dressing for Angelina, extra croutons for the kids.
Or perhaps Colin Firth? He was absolutely terrific in The King’s Speech after all. Yes, keep me in a salt-shaker by his catering van so that in the middle of a hard days filming, he’s able to grab his stew on-the-go and season to taste.
Of course Helen Mirrin, the Helen Mirrin, Dame Helen Mirrin, goes without saying. With the career that she’s had, who knows where in her weekly shop I might end up.
Although I do worry that the stars of tomorrow may be much less reputable and held in much lower esteem than the shining examples of success and dignity that can we mostly see today. Heaven forbid I get stirred into the likes of Jeffrey Archer’s Horlicks.
I am aware that this is just a pipe-dream; such well known personalities have much more important and interesting things to busy themselves with, but if nothing else, I’d settle for being spread over Fiona Bruce’s toast.