Sir David Amess was a regular in our office. Not because, like many MPs, he wanted to secure a debate or ask for something, but because he genuinely liked a gossip and a chat with my staff.
If he wasn’t talking about his family – he was a very proud husband and father-of-five – he would be talking about his love of animals or extolling the delights of his constituency of Southend West, a place that he told us and the House at every opportunity most certainly deserved to have city status.
But he also wanted to know what was going on in the lives of my colleagues, worrying if one of them wasn’t there. When one member of staff retired after 28 years’ service, David bestowed on him umpteen presents to show his appreciation.
That was David in Parliament – and that was David in his constituency.
A man who found a connection with everyone, no matter their background. A man who loved a laugh and always had a kind, or cheeky, word to say.
That was David in Parliament – and that was David in his constituency. A man who found a connection with everyone, no matter their background. A man who loved a laugh and always had a kind, or cheeky, word to say
As a dedicated MP, committed to serving and helping his constituents, he held his surgery, as he did regularly, at Belfairs Methodist Church in Leigh-on-Sea.
Only four hours after David died, I had time to reflect on the vulnerability of MPs at their surgeries as I carried out my own in Chorley Town Hall in Lancashire.
For more than two hours, constituents poured through the doors to talk to me about cowboy builders, housing problems, access to mental health services – and even if I knew where a cheerleading group could
