A glass to Ansell
I RAISE my glass in farewell to Ansell Egerton. Years ago, when the Times's front page still carried classified advertisements for Sister Allen's service of colonic irriga- tion, he and Bill Clarke were running the Times's City pages and gave me my first job in journalism. It was, Ansell told me reas- suringly, just like any other kind of writing, except that you put the answer at the begin- ning. One morning he decided to shuffle his pack of reporters: 'Christopher, go out and report the money market.' So ends a promising career, I thought, but I dared not plead ignorance. 'Yes, Mr Egerton,' I said, `of course, Mr Egerton, right away, Mr Egerton, the money market — er, where is it?' Never mind,' he said, and waved me forward. He would have agreed with Wal- ter Bagehot that there was nothing so diffi- cult about money as to justify impenetrable writing, and nothing so solemn as to exclude jokes. He was pleased with me when a random discovery of mine enabled him to run the headline 'Second butterfly farm found'. He had been an academic and was to be a merchant banker, but I always thought that journalism gave him the most fun. Indeed, for those who find no fun in it, what a sad occupation it must be. Never with Ansell, though. Ave atque vale.
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