I had been involved in Conservative Party politics for ten years when, as a very green but uber enthusiastic supporter of Margaret Thatcher and as a twenty six year old shopkeeper from Swansea, headed towards Brighton for our Party conference.

Little did I know what horror was about to unfurl at the main Party hotel, the Grand, during the conference. Twenty five years on, Norman Tebbit and his wheelchair bound wife, Margaret, head back to the scene of that infamous terrorist attack to unveil a plaque in memory of the five murders and thirty four injuries. I meanwhile was lucky to escape unharmed.

For non aficionados of Party conferences the main hotels are jam packed from 7 p.m. on any given conference day until the early hours. I was at a table with my fellow Welsh Tories discussing what we had got up to that day and whether a teacher colleague of mine should put in to speak at the education debate which was taking place on the last day.

You could hardly hear yourself talk as people mingled in the bar area, moved around the hotel lounge, or shouted goodbye to old friends for another year as they headed towards the door.

At 2.54 a.m. I was facing towards the hotel window not far from the bar. I heard a muffled thud, saw glass sprinkling from the heavens, (I thought it was water) and then a rather loud explosion, rumbling and the lights went out.

“Get down it’s a bomb” shouted a journalist who had experienced the noise before when covering Vietnam. It was good advice. I was already on the floor and thinking to myself that I should keep down as another bomb might well have been planted.

I lay there for a minute or so as people shouted to one and other to see if they were ok. One lady screamed that her friend had just left the hotel and was anguishing over whether he had got out in time.

I slowly crept back to our table through overturned chairs, to reclaim the shoes of my friend. She had taken them off during drinks and hardly thought that she would be parted from them in such a spectacular fashion.

People slowly got to their feet and amongst the dust in the dark patted themselves down. A Hotel employee entered the lounge and ordered us all to follow her out of the building through the back entrance. We were led like kids on a school outing in single file through the back corridors of the hotel, normally only known to staff.

We assembled outside the front of the hotel. The main entrance was completely sealed by debris from five floors above. We stared back at the hotel from the safety of the road on the opposite side. I didn’t know it then but five people lay dead and thirty four injured. Some, like Margaret Tebbit, carrying a constant reminder of that night with her for the rest of their lives.

There were hundreds of hotel guests in their nightclothes mingling with the remnants of the Hotel bar. I remember bumping into the bizarre spectacle of Patrick Jenkin in a white overcoat but no trousers. I am certain the last thing he thought of was making a fashion statement at such a time.

Amidst the arrival of the heroic emergency services, who laboured through the perilous rubble hiding its victims including Norman Tebbit, we were invited into the neighbouring hotel for tea and coffee. Never was a cup of tea so gratefully received.

I thought that I was rather composed considering the circumstances. Had I been killed or injured then the IRA would have notched up another score. Fortunately, I was unscathed. I telephoned my mother from a phone box on the sea front. (No mobile phone for me at that time.) I then telephoned directory inquiries to speak to a journalist friend of mine working on the local radio station Swansea Sound. There were two listings of his surname in the phonebook for Porthcawl where he lived. I took them both and proceeded to ring the wrong one. It was his mother. She gladly gave me his correct number and I passed on my fresh remembrances of the fateful night to him.

The next day I awoke in my hotel early to watch wall to wall coverage of the continuing rescue attempt. There was the news that Marks and Spencer were to open an hour early for bedraggled Grand Hotel Guests to purchase emergency replacement supplies of clothes.

News had come through that Margaret Thatcher had ordered the conference to go ahead as planned. The business had been altered, but the show would go on.

We stood in silence to honour the dead and applauded loudly the bravery of firemen, police and ambulance workers for their dedication and stamina. We were sent home from Brighton with a stirring speech from the main intended victim of the blast, the Prime Minister. This attack on democracy had failed and always would.

The IRA issued a chilling statement that Thatcher was lucky, but that she would have to be lucky every time and they only had to be lucky once.

On my drive back to Swansea my thoughts raced back to the moment the bomb exploded and the aftermath. I started to shiver and finally pulled into a service station to calm myself down. 15 hours later I was in shock. I was shaking and went in for a cup of tea to recover my composure. I was alive, I was uninjured and I had just experienced a bitter taste of what people in Northern Ireland were living on a daily basis.

Twenty five years on I can reflect on the relative calm of Northern Ireland. I reflect also on the early release of Patrick Magee the convicted terrorist who planted the bomb. He received 8 life sentences with a proviso he serve at least 35 years. 14 years later he was released. This was part of the Good Friday Agreement. He never apologised for his actions or repented the deaths.

The twenty five years have gone like a flash to me. I can calmly look back on the events of that night with solace, but the awful truth is that many families were never given that luxury. They paid the ultimate price or still carry the pain and the scars today. That was the price we all paid for our democratic values and way of life.