There's been a lot of talk at the Conservative Party Conference of whether David Cameron is any closer to realising his grand ambition for a "Big Society". This is the vague notion espoused by the Prime Minister (before he had the power to do anything about it) that we're a nation that nurtures each other, that cares.
Well, the other week I came face to face with it - and it was not a pleasant experience. Neither was it big or much of a society, to be honest. But it was there, an invisible force of human nature that suddenly sprang into action, enveloping me in a cloak of uncalled-for compassion.
My mother, Philippa, died of a heart attack. She never made it into the operating theatre at the Royal Free Hospital in North London having been rushed there by ambulance after complaining of stomach pains. She slipped away close to midnight, holding my father's hand as a phalanx of doctors and nurses frantically tried to save her.
She was 80 and the kind of person who never made a fuss. I'm sure she'd hate me writing about her as part of some mawkish eulogy, so suffice it to say that she lived a good, long, honest and remarkably happy life. Don't moan, she said, play with the hand you're dealt with, be stoic to the last and try not to spoil it by being overly emotional.
So I won't. Because although this piece is inspired by her, it isn't really about her. It's about us and our place in a so-called Big Society, presumably one that doesn't need a harrowing image of a drowned child to wake us from our selfish slumber and do something worthwhile. Except, as we have seen these past few weeks with the refugee crisis, it's not quite that simple. Those values certainly exist, yet politicians are worryingly out of kilter with popular sentiment.
My, or our, experience (I include my 89-year-old father and younger brother in this) provides some evidence as to why that should be so. It began the moment my mother drew her last breath- though for me it started the morning after when Dad, having waited until sunrise, called me at the isolated Spanish villa where my family had been spending the summer.
Up popped Emma, a new friend and colleague who, within seconds of a desperate text from me, pulled in a favour (and spent a fortune) to fly me home on the busiest day of the tourist calendar, after I'd been told no seat was available. And Lisa, my schoolmate's wife whose constant stream of hot food, candles, prayer books and advice helped my father, brother and I concentrate on other things. There was the rabbi I barely know who interrupted her holiday to be a therapist and the rabbi we've come to know who guided us through a bewildering maze of religiosity. Neighbours who I'd never met coming to offer sustenance, people I'd not seen in decades whose wisdom I know I'll need as the weeks and months unfurl.
And Leonard, a jocular, grey-haired ball of energy and a volunteer from our local synagogue who, I later learned, was roused from his bed on that fateful night by a doctor who saw that my father needed help. Devastated, confused and suddenly totally alone after 50-odd years of devoted companionship, it was Leonard who held Dad's hand. Forms were filled in, statements given and all the depressing formalities adhered to before everyone, my mother included, could be "released". But it was a total stranger whose generosity of spirit made it happen.
All these cogs and more in the Jewish ''system'' - replicas of which exist in all religions - suddenly clicked seamlessly. The machine took over. A vacuum was filled instantly. People helped for no other reason than wanting to. They weren't encouraged, or told to, or enticed to by the promise of congratulatory pats on the back, baubles and ermine.
They were not "big" gestures but small ones - often tiny, momentary ones. It was not the kind of behaviour that defines "society" but instead defines us as people, connects us intimately to one another.
Not under a vast, well-funded umbrella or in front of a grand canvas constructed by government agencies but simple, quiet, profound connections that may last a minute or a lifetime.
In fact the whole experiece was so un-Cameronesque as to make absurd his desire to claim ownership for a series of selfless actions simply by reimagining them in his own image. And it made me realise why government often fails to inspire, match or even emulate the unthinking decency we show to each other.
Politicians boast of their listening skills and ability to react to the will of the people, but that's rarely the case. More often than not, like reeds in the wind, we bend to their will. When it does happen - as has been the case following the images of three-year-old Syrian Aylan Kurdi lying face down in the sand on a Turkish beach - our elected officials, as if reluctantly prised free of their protective bubble, suddenly appear disengaged from reality.
I have no doubt that Cameron, scarred by his own personal trauma, is well-meaning, but he and his advisers have tried to latch on to something that already works and burdened it with the kinds of rules, politics and economies that encourage people to pursue vanity-fuelled ego trips. Precisely the opposite of what motivated Leonard, Emma, Lisa and the rest of my small society of temporary shoulders.
Perhaps there was never a halcyon era when a ''big society'' picked up the pieces in a mass wave of selfless do-gooding. It was always little, meaningful connections that warranted only minimal thanks. I suspect that the difference is that my parents and grandparents were guided by a political establishment that understood why morality is a more important indicator of one's humanity than quotas, budgets and delegation - often to organisations that operate with little oversight.
If the laudable ethos of the Big Society reveals anything, it is that our institutions and their leaders, more than ever in history, lack the moral compassion to make it work. Yet we as individuals have buckets of it - one only need see the grass roots movement whose generosity of spirit and outrage at political foot-dragging has compelled our government to take action over tackling this century's most significant humanitarian crisis.
It's ironic that Mum always taught me not to make a fuss about things, to stiffen upper lips and keep schtum when things weren't going your way. Yet sometimes the most human thing is to do the opposite. It's why we know what's right and politicians sometimes haven't a clue.
