I was going to tell you this week about my Nespresso machine, but I’ve decided to put that on hold. Instead, I want to tell you about my thespian adventure last Shabbat.

The occasion was the barmitzvah of one of our multitude of great-nephews. Danny, my brother and sister-in-law’s third grandchild, acquitted himself magnificently, much to nobody’s surprise, despite the considerable challenge of having to read a very long and challenging double portion not in an acoustically-constructed synagogue as would happen in a normal year, but, rather, in the street, for a congregation that included those socially distancing outside their houses some tens of yards away. His reading was tuneful (how wise he was to arrange for his voice to break early enough for him to be already more or less settled into his adult voice), accurate and crystal clear, despite the considerable acoustic challenges.

The only thing to spoil what was a wonderful shabbat was the fact that none of his three surviving grandparents were able to attend, all being held more or less prisoner in England. Which is where I come in.

My brother Martin, showing a flattering level of trust in me, asked me whether I would be prepared to deliver his ‘address to the barmitzvah boy’ on his behalf. No pressure there, then!

I, of course, assured Martin that I would feel privileged. In other circumstances, the following week – waiting for the script to arrive – would have been a little nerve-wracking: What have I let myself in for? I have my reputation as a public speaker to consider! However, I only needed to remind myself that this was Martin to know that, when the text arrived, it would be beautifully written, simultaneously profound and simple, and very moving. As, indeed, it was. What it also was – and this did, to be honest, surprise me – was early, arriving in my inbox six full days before last Shabbat!

Which, of course, gave me plenty of time to practice my Chigwell accent and to get used to wearing a thick, white wig. I sorted out suitable slacks (Martin and I are, so we are told by our wives, the last two people left alive who call slacks ‘slacks’ – and they say that as if it were a bad thing!), and the Martin-est pair of loafers I own. (I remember reading that some great actor or other always starts getting into character by deciding what shoes the character wears, and putting them on. Works for me.)

Eventually, my moment arrived, at 7PM on Saturday afternoon. (As my late father always said: ‘I don’t know why they can’t have before-dinner speeches – then we could all enjoy our meal!’) I was, I admit, extremely nervous. After all, I was carrying a heavy responsibility on my shoulders.

Speaking for myself, I enjoy speaking for myself (although I still get nervous – but a bit of adrenaline never hurt anyone). However, speaking ‘as’ my brother was a whole other ball game. And this wasn’t a 50-second perfunctory Oscar acceptance speech on behalf of a colleague; it was an 11-minute, 30-second full-blooded exegesis and tear-jerker, best appreciated with an IQ of at least 125 and a small pack of Kleenex, on behalf of a close blood relative..

However, I needn’t have worried. If you’re working with good enough material, then that’s more than half the battle. When it was all over, several of the guests said some very kind things; one even suspected me of being not a great-uncle at all, but a hired gun just playing the part. Those who are serial attenders of the family’s smachot said that it was almost as if Martin were delivering it himself, and that I took as a great compliment.

Of course, I dialed a lot of the comments down, since they were made by Americans, and I learnt long ago that there is hardly any limit to how far a reasonable English accent and clear enunciation will get you with Americans. Even so, I found myself wondering about the fact that, if I may be immodest, both Martin and I are able to draft, and deliver, a speech that will hold an audience.

Is this, I mused, an inherited or acquired skill? As it happens, both of our parents were also good public speakers, although my mother came to it quite late. (Now I think of it, all four of our children also speak very well in public.) Nevertheless, I think part of the credit goes to Ilford County High School, which we both attended for seven years.

Among the extra-curricular activities at ICHS were thriving junior and senior debating societies, and we were both enthusiastic members. As well as formal debates, there were other occasional activities.

One of these was the Balloon Debate, in which it was imagined that a hot-air balloon holding four disparate personalities was plummeting to earth, with no further ballast to jettison. In order to save the balloon, one of the passengers needed to be thrown overboard. Each of four pupils was assigned one of the personalities in advance, and each had to argue why they should not be the one to be discarded. After the four speeches, the audience voted on which of, for the sake of argument, Marilyn Monroe, Winston Churchill, Albert Einstein and William Shakespeare to eject.

More challenging was the Hat Debate, in which a number of motions for debate were placed into a hat and two speakers were selected to draw one motion from the hat. The toss of a coin determined who would speak in favour of the motion, and who against. With no preparation time, the two then spoke, and, again, the audience voted.

This was always a fairly risky entertainment, because sometimes speakers were not up to the challenge of ad libbing on the motion, let us say: ‘This House believes that the world would be a better place had television not been invented’. Fortunately, many, if not most, 15-year-old boys would find watching a classmate dry up completely and stand, frozen, like a deer in the headlights even more enjoyable than listening to a cogent argument on the evils of TV.

However, nothing could compare to the majesty of a full-blown debate, with a motion chosen and publicized two weeks in advance. The order of speaking (with strict time limits for each speaker) would be: proposer, opposer, seconder for the proposition, seconder for the opposition. The debate would then be thrown open to the floor, and the air would grow thick with arguments and counter-arguments, points of information and points of order. Eventually, the opposer and then the proposer would sum up, and the motion would be put to the vote.

I loved every aspect of it! The satisfaction of a speech carefully prepared, rehearsed and delivered, with its focus on the marshalling and construction of the arguments, but equally on the theatricality and the various techniques of persuasion. Balancing all of that was the ability to think on one’s feet, to adjust the prepared text so that it addressed, and undermined, ideally demolished, the points made by the other side.

And, to top it all, it was a competition, with a winner and a loser. I was, even then (perhaps even more then) a cut-throat competitor.

There were two years when Martin and I overlapped in the senior debating society, and, during those years, it was fairly usual for us both to speak at every debate, once the debate was thrown open to the floor. I remember a friend coming up to me after the fourth or fifth such debate and saying: ‘You do realise that, every time, you wait until after your brother has spoken, and then you always argue for whichever side he has not taken?’

I hadn’t actually realized, but, once it was pointed out to me, I had to admit that it was true.

Once a year – the mere memory of it sends a tingle down my spine – we held an inter-school debate, pitting our wits against those of the pupils of St Ursuline’s Convent School. Even at this distance, I find it hard to believe that the powers-that-be in both schools sanctioned this extraordinary co-mingling of 17-year-olds: boys in a single-sex school where the school secretary and the dinner ladies represented our only scholastic exposure to womanhood; Roman Catholic girls schooled by nuns.

It is difficult to exaggerate the degree to which the atmosphere was charged at these debates. A ground note was laid down of school pride and intense competitiveness. Flittering all around this was the frisson of seeing girls of the opposite gender actually on school premises, and in the same hall as us. As the debate wore on, a further layer was added. How many, and how explicit, doubles entendres could speakers from the floor introduce into the debate without being castigated or ejected.

I am not proud of this confession: in mitigation, I can only plead heptadecimality. In other words, we were seventeen. What did anyone expect?

Anyway, happy days! To be free to debate questions of cosmic importance: ‘This house believes it is better to know that one lives in the dark than to believe falsely that one lives in the light’ or of no consequence whatsoever: ‘This house believes in bubble gum’. To revel in our sophistry and intellect. To celebrate our wit and our brilliance. Above all (I see, from the perspective of 60 years ahead): to develop a whole range of abilities: to persuade and to carry an audience; to weave a logical argument and to follow another’s logical argument; to have convictions, and to recognize when they are fundamentally flawed; to listen critically; to be inspired. Looking back at Ilford County, I am not at all sure about the overall quality of the education I received, but the Debating Society was an education for life.

One effective device in public speaking is, of course, the use of repetition for emphasis.