A night to remember

As far as memorable evenings go, this was one of my best. A year on I can still recall the details we discussed, the speech he made and the indelible impression he left. It was a night spent with my husband but on this occasion he was happily outshone.

It was an annual event, a formal dinner held in the dining hall of University College, one of the three oldest Oxford colleges dating back to 1249. I approached the night with trepidation. In all honesty I was not looking forward to going.

My husband was making a speech which meant we were seated at the high table rather than the tables filled with our friends. A few days before the dinner, he informed me the table setting had me smacked between a lord and the president of the club. I was a little daunted. Frankly my conversation at that point was limited.

I was 36 weeks' pregnant and barely able to go thirty minutes without mentioning one of the frightening facts I'd read that day in What to Expect When You're Expecting. I was fairly certain my dining companions and I could safely expect imminent death by boredom.

How wrong I was. Not because I became sterling company but because the man on my right was the most impressive, scintillating dinner guest I've ever met. Four hours whizzed by and I was engrossed. I consider it a great privilege to have spent that evening in his company.

I realise how gushing that is. But if there was ever a gentleman worthy of gush it is Lord Butler. His credentials are impressive.

He was private secretary to five consecutive prime ministers, including Margaret Thatcher, he was head of the civil service for a decade, he is a life peer in the House of Lords, in 2004 he chaired the inquiry into the flawed intelligence regarding weapons of mass destruction in Iraq and he's a Knight of the Garter. So as far as dinner party conversation goes, he has a significant advantage.

In my humble view, his most outstanding achievement (other than being in attendance at The Wedding), compounding his impressive professional pursuits, is his family. Having heard him speak at a function the year before where he told the room how he met his wife of half a century, with such obvious affection, humour and sincerity, he struck me as a man truly proud of his wife and family. In my books, there is no mark of an accomplished individual better than that.

He and his wife have three children, each of whom has three children themselves. The day of the dinner Lord Butler had returned from an annual holiday he and his wife take with 12 of their closest friends. They go to a new place every year and take turns being the travel guide. I really wanted to ask if I go along next year.

Our conversation stretched from his encounters with the Clinton family, his various eccentric relatives, his time as an undergraduate at Oxford, the thrill of working in the House of Lords, the experience of running into a Brighton hotel room to get Margaret Thatcher and her husband the night of a bombing that nearly killed them, to the more personal.

He spoke with warmth about his children. He told me about their careers, their partners, their children, details of their daily lives, their struggles and successes with combining work with parenting.

Amidst all this, he asked many questions of me. About what I thought of Oxford, how I was feeling about becoming a mother, about my career, about moving across the world to support my husband's endeavours. He was very interested in the upcoming arrival of our baby. (His sincerity was confirmed when he later addressed the room and asked them to wish us luck for our upcoming fixture on the 23rd of May. I had told him my due date when we sat down three hours earlier.)

The evening was an absolute joy. I could have sat there for hours and hours. If I wasn't already convinced he was the most entertaining, reverent dinner guest I'd ever encountered, his speech – off the cuff with a few scribbles on his napkin – was proof. He had the room in hysterics.

As I watched him regale short story after short story, I was struck by my incredible fortune. I doubted there was anyone in the room who wouldn't have considered my seat the best in house. It was pure privilege.

At the end of the night, he came up to say goodbye and said he had to rush off to get the next bus home to London. I must have looked a tad surprised because he went on to explain his wife had needed their car because she was babysitting a few of the grandchildren, so he'd caught the bus up.

Just when I thought I couldn't admire the man anymore.