Most of what he wrote was in verse, often iambic pentameter in blank verse, varied with rhyme when the sequence seemed to call for it. His rhymes were sometimes couplets or quatrains, sometimes more elaborate schemes borrowed from other poets — Thomas Hood was a favourite. Rhyme came easily to him, and often led to striking imagery. Where did such inspiration come from, I used to ask? Betjeman's answer was always the same: pointing upwards, "The Management."

There was never any doubt in his mind about the relationship of word with picture. Richard Strauss composed a whole opera, Capriccio, about which mattered more, words or music; in the end, he couldn't decide. Betjeman always knew that the powerful visual medium led, the pictures told the story. How often he would say "That doesn't need any words." A good way of getting out of having to do some work, I uncharitably thought. But his narration, when he could be persuaded to write it, would counterpoint and enhance the picture, introducing affection, surprise, humour, deep knowledge, and a very personal point of view.

Our film editor, Ted Roberts, played a vital part in all this. A wonderful rapport grew between him and John. Ted could make the poet laugh, creating a light-hearted, jokey atmosphere that relieved the pressure of having to write all those words. Even better, he had a gift for coming up with ideas, rhymes, even whole sections of verse, in Betjeman's own style. "Oh, that's much better than I could do", Betjeman sometimes said, and altering just a word or two, would write Ted's pastiche text straight in.

Even at the time, and certainly in retrospect, it was more like fun than work. At the very beginning of the editing John had turned up with a couple of bottles of rather good Burgundy in a shopping bag. But it soon became apparent that quaffing did not improve the work-rate, so, making myself rather unpopular, I puritanically banned alcohol from the cutting-room. Instead John would resort for refreshment to tangerines, as they were called in those days, and I would be sent out to the Berwick Street market — "Another bag of tangers, please, Eddie . . ."

After a productive morning he would sometimes totter down to one of the local Soho restaurants for lunch. Wheeler's was a favourite, and so was Bianchi's, in Frith Street, where John would encounter friends like John Julius Norwich, often himself working on a BBC film, and they would compare progress. Once or twice, if inspiration seemed to be lacking, Betjeman would throw down his fountain pen, pick up his squashed brown hat, and tell us to come out with him. Hailing a taxi, we would drive to the Athenaeum or the Royal Automobile Club. "Am I a member of this club?" he would ask the porter, "Of course, Sir John." "Oh good, we'll have a spot of lunch then." The porter fitted underdressed Ted with an oversize jacket, and a gravy-stained tie, so that he could be admitted too, while John pointed out the RAC's shallow, comfortable steps by architects Mewès and Davis, "just like at the Ritz".