I have a daughter called Georgia. She is 17 years old. In November 2005, on the day she was due to be born, my husband and I walked into a Moroccan-style tent in a back garden in north London. It was filled with bunting, long tables, food and George Alagiah's whole family - his wife and two sons, his father, four sisters, nieces, nephews and a handful of close friends. It was his 50th birthday party. A small, intimate affair for a man who adored his family more than anything else. When my baby finally appeared two weeks later, we named her Georgia after him.

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