Joan Bakewell had been a broadcasting pioneer for more than half a century. And she’s still as forthright as ever. Here, she talks to Sophie Heawood about the empowerment of women, her newly streamlined life and why Boris has got it all wrong about the virus

Joan Bakewell writes in her memoir, The Centre of the Bed, about the moment she became an adult. It was 1949 and she was 17, a hard- working grammar schoolgirl from the industrial north, when her frustrated, depressive mother found a photograph of Joan kissing a boy and set fire to it in front of her eyes. Joan felt deep shame, but the shame began to transmogrify.

“Suddenly I was savagely and tremblingly angry,” she writes. “I was being forged in some bitter fire of my mother’s will, and I must survive the moment and emerge as myself. That was the end of innocence, not the loss of virginity or any fumbling that fell short of it. It was when I crossed into adulthood, knew my own mind and was sure of who I was.” Soon afterwards she left for university, where she joyfully discovered the world of ideas, as well as the one of sex, even though, as a student of the Cambridge women’s college Newnham, such things were banned.