What would Clare Hollingworth, who died this week, have made of Donald Trump? Or the world of Twitter? Each time one of our breed departs, we predict the end of the foreign correspondent. All of 40 years ago, one of the first radio interviews I endured – for an Irish station, I recall – involved a debate not about the future of our calling but the date of its demise. When television brought us news pictures by satellite, we used to be asked, what was the point of grinding out the words to describe what the world had already seen on screen? Hollingworth’s death at 105, at an age when joy at her final stunning longevity must smother sorrow, will surely set us off on another premature obituary of the job she loved and lived for and which she still wished – almost blind and scarcely able to walk – to enjoy after she had scored her century.