The other week I was invited to my first Shabbat night dinner in 30 years.
My main concern was that I didn’t have an appropriate skirt or dress. “It doesn’t matter,” said my father (my date for the evening). “There will only be a few people, and it will be very informal”.
So — dressed in flowy smart trousers, on my dad’s arm — I turned up at our neighbour’s house. From the doorway, you could see that the house was full of around 50 people. There were older men with yarmulkes. Glamorous women, too — some with sheitels — and a few guys who looked like rabbis.
I soon discovered the event was to welcome and introduce some friends of the hosting couple to the local community. The guests of honour were an American rabbi and his wife, now based in Israel. There was a secondary purpose: to celebrate the success of a Friday night minyan for those who lived too far from shul to walk, often organised by the host.
My father went off to prepare for the prayers. I felt uncomfortable. Did I belong here? Would I really be welcome? Since 2001, I had been married to a non-Jew (we are separated now). I did not keep kosher. I only went to shul for the occasional wedding. 
Sure, my teenage children knew they were Jewish. When they were small, we lit the Chanukah candles, and went to my parents’ seder. Living in North London I was surrounded by and was proud of my Jewish heritage and culture, but I was very much a “lapsed Jew”.
For five minutes or so, I didn’t know what to do with myself. Then I caught the eye of a sympathetic ‘secular’ looking woman, who beckoned me over with a smile. She turned out to be a close neighbour of mine, an Oxford-educated teacher. She introduced me to some more women, all friendly and very admiring of my new pedicure.
As the service began in the conservatory, we whisper- chatted in the living room. This was fun, but I thought it was weird that the women were ushered away as a bit of a side show. One of the group of women said, not unkindly:  “Perhaps you should join a Reform shul if you don’t like it”. But no. I had been bought up in the Orthodox tradition and wanted to stay.
There was a table plan. Vanessa is a friend of my father (her son and I grew up together). We went to look and moved the place names around so we could sit next to each other. On and off for the rest of the evening, we chatted mischievously,  like 14-year-olds at a dinner party for the grownups.
The prayers and the singing from the conservatory filled the room. I didn’t understand any of the Hebrew, but remembered tunes from childhood. It was warm and evocative. I loved it.
“Are you lighting?” asked the hostess. I had no idea what she was talking about but joined the queue of women waiting to strike a match for tea lights — two each, the tiny flames alongside the bigger, more standard Shabbat candles.
Dinner was a bit of bunfight of overstretched waitresses and self-service from the kitchen. The lockshen soup may or may not have been a tiny bit cold. But I didn’t care. Because, before the soup was served, the whisky! Just a thimble full, but I loved the fact an earnest-looking frum gentleman was pouring for all and sundry, no difference between the men and the ladies. Equal opportunities ruled where the booze was concerned.
The sweet kosher wine was awful but my one of my co-conspirators found a good Israeli vintage. And the talking! I chatted so much that I didn’t get a chance to eat my dinner. 
There was a young, handsome rabbi from Antwerp who liked to drive fast cars. Opposite me were an Israeli couple. We talked Shtisel, Hatufim and when there would be a third season of Fauda.
Best of all, the Rabbi Of Our Synagogue came over to talk to ME! He congratulated me on a feature I wrote recently on Labour antisemitism for the New York Post.
Shouting above the general din we talked for 15 minutes about everything from the 12th century blood libel to settlements in Judea and Samaria. I felt honoured.
When the noisy dinner was over, our guest got up to speak. There was lots of “Torah” I didn’t understand but I got the gist of his sermon about the importance of consistency in life. 
Mostly, however, I lost myself in his fabulous old fashioned Brooklyn accent, which reminded me of those films set in Coney Island.
The article I had written for the New York Post was headlined: How Jeremy Corbyn Made Me Jewish Again. But looking around the room, a tiny bit fuzzy with whisky and goodwill, I knew there was obviously more to it than that. A bit of sadness, too, for the years I had missed, what might have been.
 But it’s time to look forward. My main experience was that of warmth, joy and acceptance. It’s a hideous cliché, but appropriate here I’m afraid. It felt like I was “home” again. 

@mirandalevycopy