Lunch at Reuters

How the hungry hacks of old would squirm at the poncified eateries now inhabiting 85FS and environs. When I was a lad at The AP in Farringdon Road, home of the Frostie God of Tea or Bread, there was a cordon bleu chef for the Bureau Chief's dining room and a butler to escort visitors to the building. Unfortunately that was sacrificed during a spasm of rationalisation (when a carpenter was called in to saw the British desk in half in mid-shift) and some drunken riff-raff moved in one night to finish off the booze from the cocktail cabinet. But that didn't worry us lowly deskers. We could dine handsomely in the Punch on a huge plate of eggs, bacon and sausages, specially prepared by Joan or even the landlady herself, for an astonishing 2/6d. Or, even better, sup on the steaming Shepherd's Pie, providing, of course, the aforesaid God of Tea or Bread didn't have his face or false teeth in it. Timing was all. Then there was the best breakfast bargain in London, to be had in the top floor Reuters canteen after a night spent in one of the comfy, cosy bedrooms reserved for late-night shifters, next to the lift. Panoramic views to rival those of the Savoy, with grub to match - ah, the crisp white toast in neat triangles and well larded fried eggs - for pennies. But above all, for those with the serious munchies, there was Mick's caff, where debonair M hisself would carefully brush the ash coughed from his fag off the ham before slapping on the top slice of Mother's Pride. Considerably less than 2/6d. Those really were the days, old chums. Terence Conran? - F that! as Gordon would say. ■