Finchley in 1982 was at the eye of a hurricane. All was calm and cosy in N3, while elsewhere the country was starting to tear itself apart over the policies of Margaret Hilda Thatcher, PM.

This was my first ‘patch’ as a reporter and one I knew well, having grown up in nearby New Southgate.

An added bonus was that the sitting MP was the hurricane starter herself. It’s been downhill ever since for me as far as MPs are concerned.

No disrespect to some fine men and women, but Thatcher was an utterly impossible act to follow.

During my 32-year career, I have met every Prime Minister up to and including our very own David Cameron, MP for Witney. He, like Thatcher, has made a point of not neglecting his constituency upon reaching the highest office.

They all had presence, except for Gordon Brown, who mainly had the hump on the occasions I met him.

But merge these fine people together and they would not match Thatcher’s charisma and electric personality. Meeting her was like being jabbed with a cattle prod. As my career took me across London and then north to Derbyshire via the national press, my perspective on her widened and the divisiveness that defined her time in office came into sharp focus, as did the devastating effects of some of her policies.

But back then, I was 21, new to the job, had no formal training and was, to be honest, rather shallow. I saw only what was in front of me; that Margaret Thatcher was a fine constituency MP who was incredibly accommodating to the local press, often at the expense of national newspapers and broadcasters. She was also unfailingly gentle and kind towards me whenever we met and even helped me with an interview on one memorable occasion (she asked the questions, I wrote down the answers). Dare I say it, she was downright motherly.

Thatcher regularly included the three local papers covering Finchley at the time in her engagements. So I found myself wandering around a new shopping arcade with her, or opening a new school building, or memorably looking on one evening at Woodhouse Grammar School while she enthralled students with up-to-the-minute news on the progress of the Falklands War.

Outside, behind a cordon, were the assembled hordes of the national press pack, panting like dogs for any scraps they could get their hands on.

One day, I was sent to cover the obligatory 100th birthday, a must for any young reporter. I was told Mrs T would be in attendance and arrived at the terraced house in Finchley Central to find her Special Branch bodyguard, Bob Kingston, at the front door. Inside, in a small through lounge, was a sight I have never forgotten. There, arranged on a series of chairs and sitting bolt upright, were the birthday girl and three of her relatives. Understandably, the 100-year-old didn’t look as if she knew what was going on. But her relatives did. Their expressions switched between elation and terror as they stared at the figure sitting opposite them on the sofa.

“Ah, this is the man from the local paper. He’s a bit late, but never mind,” said Mrs Thatcher as she poured tea for all and ladled cakes on to plates. “Come and sit next to me Simon. We’ve had a nice chat already and I’ll bring you up to date. Then we can do the interview.” Note the ‘we’. There followed a few questions from me and a lot from the Prime Minister, directed mainly towards the relatives. “Oh that is good. Write that down Simon.”

What was probably no more than 30 minutes passed in a blur before I found myself back on the street. I’d just interviewed a 100-year-old in a dark, cramped lounge with one of the most powerful women in the world. And she’d even sorted the refreshments.

In her constituency, she was still the Prime Minister. But she was different, in voice and style, to the woman who handbagged her way through national and international politics Baroness Thatcher, as she later became, polarised public opinion like no other British politician of the modern age. She set the tone and shape of the Britain we live in today and left behind as many enemies as she did loyal supporters. I will remember her as a woman who dominated in a man’s world, an extraordinary leader, a divisive politician and someone who could run a government, conduct a war and still find time to deliver tea, cake and kindness to a young journalist, a bewildered centenarian and her awestruck family.

An abridged version of this article has appeared in a London newspaper