I SAID last week that I thought our policemen are
wonderful. Except, of course, when they are pursuing me. I had to drive the other evening to a place near Fenchurch Street Station, a part of the city with which I am rather less familiar than John Betjeman, and found myself going round madly in ever- widening quadrilaterals of one-way streets. So I stopped to ask the way and turned, as directed, up a narrow lane which led, so far as I could see, nowhere. Finding an entry, I turned and, emerging from the lane head first (as one should, accord- ing to the Highway Code), was pounced upon by a police car, the occupants of which seemed far more concerned to find out how I'd come the wrong way down that one-way street than why. In return for my information they told me how to get to Fenchurch Street and, doing as they suggested, I landed up at Aldgate, in a state near to despair. Fenchurch Street Station does exist, I suppose.
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