Those were the halcyon days of believing I could make some kind of difference in my work; striving to bring great entertainment and vital information to the masses. My future soared out before me, rainbow-like: my future, chasing fool’s gold. It wasn’t so long ago but it felt like an eternity. With the bit truly clamped between my teeth, I’d spent days agonising over a subject I thought was imperative and timely for debate, and then I went with all guns blazing to persuade Malcolm Bailey to appear.

Malcolm Bailey was a thug-made-good – though it took me a while to fully realise it. Infamous for championing unfashionable causes, he’d originally made his money with a raft of innovative computer equipment in the eighties; then he’d used his business clout to buy airtime for his controversial opinions. He was truly Left, left of left, old Left: his political heart belonged in Russia circa the Revolution, though he certainly wasn’t averse to a bit of what money could buy, principles or none. And he was full of the things – principles, that is. Chock-full.

I needed Malcolm desperately for the show I was producing on domestic violence: I had to prove to Charlie that I could come up with the goods, and Malcolm would be a truly contentious booking. Unfortunately he’d already sensed my desperation and, calling the shots, arranged an early breakfast meeting on a Monday morning at his new offices in Clerkenwell. I’d spent a hideous weekend working all hours, and then had finally slid into bed on the Sunday night only to be woken by the phone. In the first stages of Alzheimer’s, Gar was not well at all, and in the end I’d slept in the chair by her bed in the nursing-home, waking stiff, sore and late, not to mention terrified by my grandmother’s fragile state.

By the time I’d screeched into the foyer of Bailey’s building a minute before eight, I was beside myself with exhaustion and ill humour. The offices were part of a new block that was causing a huge row – ecological triumph or eyesore, the jury was still out. Frankly, this morning I was past caring. I was more interested in the offer of coffee that Bailey’s ferocious PA Charlene made as she escorted me humourlessly to the tenth floor.

‘Strong as you can make it, please.’ Light-headed with lack of sleep, I collapsed onto a boomerang-shaped leather chair outside Bailey’s office and, spotting a big glass ashtray, delved for my cigarettes.

‘It’s strictly no smoking.’ Charlene pursed her thin lips and thrust a paper cup of very weak coffee at me. She had a hairy mole just below her left nostril. ‘Mr Bailey’s first meeting is over-running.’

I smiled wanly. It was only eight a.m. The man was obviously possessed.