Joan Bakewell opens her front door, leads me into her elegant, art-filled, double-height-ceilinged central London home, apologises for the mess, of which there is none, and starts talking about Rory Stewart, whose book is on the sofa. It would be great to be him, we both agree – floating above everything, commenting. She likes the guy fine (I’m on the fence), but that’s not her way: she can’t help feeling responsible, as though she should be helping. She’s spent the morning poring over the awful events in Israel and Gaza, wondering what she could do. Her attitude comes from the...