Letter from London

I have recently come down from Scotland to spend the summer in my old flat in Bloomsbury. This was easier said than done, for a series of mishaps has cramped my mobility. A couple of drastic operations, a broken arm, a minor stroke and a shattering fall have forced me to rely on a metal, four-legged frame for getting about. It is called a Zimmer, I believe, and with its aid I am able to jerk myself along at a speed considerably less than one mile an hour. For this I daily pour blessings on the head of Herr Zimmer, whoever he is, if ever he was.

This limited mobility has its disadvantages. For example I can take the Zimmer with me in a taxi, and I know I must go soon to Fleet Street, but how do I get my four-footed friend through the Daily Telegraph’s revolving door? Of course there are other doors but these are all bolted and barred as a precaution against bomb-happy IRA men. They would keep me out, though they don’t the IRA.

CB

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Colm Brogan

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I have recently come down from Scotland to spend the summer in my old flat in Bloomsbury. This was easier said than done, for a series of mishaps has cramped my mobility. A couple of drastic operations, a broken arm, a minor stroke and a shattering fall have forced me to rely on a metal, four-legged frame for getting about. It is called a Zimmer, I believe, and with its aid I am able to jerk myself along at a speed considerably less than one mile an hour. For this I daily pour blessings on the head of Herr Zimmer, whoever he is, if ever he was.

This limited mobility has its disadvantages. For example I can take the Zimmer with me in a taxi, and I know I must go soon to Fleet Street, but how do I get my four-footed friend through the Daily Telegraph’s revolving door? Of course there are other doors but these are all bolted and barred as a precaution against bomb-happy IRA men. They would keep me out, though they don’t the IRA.