After the success of our Bird's-Eye View films John took us all on a railway outing to Southend, where he had discovered an unlikely hoard of fine old claret in the café at the end of the pier. And it was at another such celebration, this time lunch upstairs at Wheeler's in Old Compton Street, that we first talked of making a film about life in the town, particularly the suburbs, rather than the country, and shot on the ground, rather than in the air. The idea for Metro-land was born as John slipped down a dozen oysters.

Now, for the first time, I was able to ask John to talk directly to camera. He himself pointed out that there were very few performers blessed with the gift of speaking not at the glass lens but through it, making human contact directly with the individual viewer at home. David Frost, he told me, was one, and Betjeman himself, in my opinion, was most certainly another — and it was one of his greatest gifts. Perhaps it's something to do with the down-to-earth, unpatronising language he used, his light-heartedness, his spontaneity, his sincerity, his big brown eyes. And of course the key to his personality, which he himself understood, was that he was always the performer, always the actor, always wanting to be the centre of attention, always wanting to be loved.

Betjeman's idea was that our film should resemble the music-hall turns he had so enjoyed in younger days, each item no longer than about four minutes, variety and surprise the keynotes, lots of laughter and perhaps a bitter-sweet moment or two along the way. I thought we would need a few anchor-points in the film, significant houses of different periods and styles through which Betjeman could guide us. Each would be the place for a big piece to camera. And as it turned out, the scene of memorable moments.

The grandest mansion in Metro-land must be Moor Park, the remarkable 18th century house designed by Sir James Thornhill and Giacomo Leoni, with its plasterwork, murals, and trompe-l'oeil ceiling. Lord Leverhulme made it a golf club in 1923.

The plan was for  John to join us there early one morning. In the spirit of the film, he would travel by Metropolitan Line from his house in Cloth Fair to Moor Park station, where he would be met and driven to the location. The film crew and I waited on the steps of the mansion to greet him as he arrived.

Time passed. Eventually, a Mini crept up, and our distinguished presenter emerged, stormy as a thundercloud. "I know I'm only the artiste, and therefore the least important person in the production. . ." He hadn't finished the sentence before the crew melted away, leaving me with a crisis on my hands.