YOU loved her or you hated her. That's how it was in the latter stages of Margaret Thatcher's reign as Britain's only woman Prime Minister more than 30 years ago.

Nothing much has changed.

Me? I'm in the first camp and reckon she was second only to Winston Churchill in the post-war period as leader of the country.

I must, of course, declare an interest. Mrs T, as she was known, was more of a constituency MP and a family friend than a Prime Minister, although our relationship gained me entry to 10 Downing Street and Chequers and a visit to Buckingham Palace to collect an OBE for community and charity work.

We regularly spoke on the same platforms (not political, I hasten to add) in the borough. "Keep it down to 30 minutes," she would chide.

I still remember clearly that as Mrs T's reputation slumped around the country, Finchley was always a haven for her, and she regularly "took refuge" in her constituency to be among friends.

At the height of her power she always had time for a day's visit to Finchley to cram in as many events as possible.

She was a regular at the Finchley Carnival over the years and always presented the prizes at the baby show.

In the wake of the Brighton bombing she came to an Army Benevolent Fund cheque presentation I had arranged, took her shoes off afterwards and sat down to regale half a dozen of us with stories of the day.

After the Falklands she came to Hendon Hall Hotel to talk to about 50 London editors at my invitation. Again she took her shoes off under the table and had the editors enthralled by a 45-minute off-the-record speech about the conflict.

There was more joy than despair in our borough enclave in her time as PM. It was sad the way it ended.

When she was ousted I met her at a function at Watford and we sat down in a quiet corner.

"What happened?" I asked. "They bottled it, Dennis," she replied.

To their shame, in my opinion.

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