Ann Widdecombe was not a personal friend of mine, but our paths crossed on a number of occasions, the first over a quarter of a century ago.
I had just started dating a fellow journalist, one Michael Gove, and it was Valentine’s Day, a fact that he had clearly overlooked, as he had a prior engagement: dinner at the home of the late Chief Rabbi, Jonathan Sacks.
He apologised, somewhat sheepishly, said he realised it was probably not what I’d had in mind – but asked me nonetheless if I would like to accompany him.
An evening of sombre rabbinical reflection is not
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