Michael Littlejohns

Michael Littlejohns was the handsome, funny and charming man who for many years ran the Reuters bureau at the United Nations. But I knew him as the world’s most magical godfather.

Our story began in New York in the late 1960s. The Beatles were on the radio and girls in miniskirts dominated the sidewalks of Manhattan. Over on the East River, despite the war in Vietnam and the assassination of a US president, the United Nations still seemed to symbolise hope and possibility; a melting pot of nationalities stumbling towards a common good.

As Reuters’ bureau chief, Mike oversaw many young reporters getting their first taste of international politics at the UN. His bustling office was a hub of handshakes and networking, laughter and chat. Among the young Reuters recruits was my father, Roland Dallas, a young journalist. Mike became Roland’s mentor. The photo shows Mike, right, introducing my father, left, to the then Secretary-General, U Thant, centre.

Not far from Mike’s office was another UN hot spot: the tour lounge. This was where glamorous guides, representing countries around the world, greeted visitors for tours of the headquarters. My mother was one of those guides.

Michael Littlejohns was something of a matchmaker. He found ways to ensure my parents’ paths crossed at convenient points in the delegates lounge and in his office. So it was that the young Reuters recruit and the pretty UN guide from Wales got married and had me. And when they chose a godfather, who better than the lovely man who had put them together? Right from the baptism in the UN chapel, Michael took to the role with relish.

In the years that followed, Mike enjoyed a wonderful career at the UN, while I was whisked around the world with globetrotting parents. Throughout our lives, we only met three times; first at the baptism, then in 2000 for a brief dinner, and finally on January 3, the day he passed away.

Ours was a relationship forged almost entirely on paper. When he wasn’t writing stories, Mike was a fine and thoughtful correspondent. Over the years, the stacks of cards and letters that I received from him grew. He never forgot a birthday, always remembered an important milestone, and followed me from girlish crazes for horse-riding and ballet, through to first jobs in journalism, marriage and the births of three children.

And I wrote back. A special relationship grew out of shared history and the joy of letter-writing. I reached out to Mike as a father and a mentor, friend and supporter. He was a parental figure, without the strings attached. To him I shyly confided my hopes and fears, dreams and plans. I thought of “Uncle Mike” as a kind of fairy godfather, my own Daddy Long Legs.

When Mike and I met for the third and final time, in the Intensive Care Unit at Lenox Hill Hospital, the connection was instant. The doctors removed his breathing apparatus, his eyes sparkled and we were able to talk like old friends for almost two hours. “Your parents did me a great favour, making me your godfather,” he said. But in truth, I was the lucky one. ■