I first met Gavin Williamson amid the excitement of the Great Wyrley carnival in his South Staffordshire constituency. He was a first-term backbench MP in his mid-thirties; I was a fresh-faced 23-year-old local newspaper journalist. I watched as he carried out the unenviable task of picking the winner of the children’s fancy dress competition.

Four years later the decisions he faced were somewhat different. He was defence secretary, and I was one of his politically appointed special advisers. This time he had to consider how we responded to nerve agent attacks in Syria.

Gavin was a reporter’s dream. He was a character. He spoke in headlines (bungalow planning applications would always cause “devastation”; decisions by local councillors were forever “bonkers”). He was fun to be