My dad showed me how to be a journalist, a Jew and a man

If it were up to me, I’d write this piece next week or perhaps the week after. Let the dust settle a bit. But I have my father’s voice in my head, and he’s insistent: the story is now, so you write it now. No one wants to read last week’s news. I’m listening to that voice because my father, Michael, died unexpectedly this week. He was a journalist to his core. He started at age 16, straight out of school in 1951, on his local paper, the Luton News – and once he’d started, he never stopped.