It was not a very difficult matter.

I had, in those days, rooms in one of the political journalists' clubs--a vast mausoleum of white tiles.

But a man used to pack my portmanteau very efficiently and at short notice.

At the station one of those coincidences that are not coincidences made me run against the great Callan.

He was rather unhappy--found it impossible to make an already distracted porter listen to the end of one of his sentences with two-second waits between each word.