Michael Foot died yesterday and I feel quite sad. The old cliche ‘the end of an era’ went through my mind as I watched the banner roll across the bottom of the news screen. Michael was old-style politics - substance without the spin. I was lucky enough to be taken out to lunch by him once, when I was a young writer. I’d just written the Passionate Sisterhood book about the women of the Wordsworth and Coleridge households and I hadn't realised that Michael was passionate about the romantic poets - particularly Coleridge. As a cradle socialist (my mother’s father came from North Sheilds) Michael Foot had been one of my political heroes when I was growing up. So I was utterly awed to be facing him across the table. His elderly dog was allowed to be in the dining room with us and none of the staff batted an eyelid when it did a large puddle in a corner of the restaurant!
That lunch was one of the high points of my life, and probably I was too shy to make the most of it. He turned out to be as honest and direct in person as he appeared in the media - erudite and with utter integrity. You can’t say that about many politicians. The very definition of the word implies moral sleight of hand. Michael Foot was something else. He wrote books, was a ferocious editor, politician and fearless campaigner. He was also deliriously eccentric and I’m very sorry that he’s gone.