AT BLOOMBERRY’S, the foundering retail chain where I have the misfortune to remain as chairman, all attempts to find a buyer have failed. It is galling to read that half of British industry is under siege from foreign buyers. But does anyone want an established retailer with a proud 150-year history as a gents’ outfitter? Its decorative shop fronts the wonder of many a high street?

Well stocked with a tasteful range of . . . well, since my arrival and the decision to “reposition the business” — a decision that I was entirely opposed to, I would like to place on record — well stocked with a range of shoddy and often malfunctioning electronic gewgaws and cheap juvenile rubbish. One must be honest.

Time to take an axe to the chain. It will be a pleasure.

TUESDAY

The board has met to consider cost savings. Those wretched shop fronts have always caused us problems from the planning authorities, and from the purblind traditionalists who infest the heritage industry. If, as I suggest, three quarters are closed, it is hard to imagine any other retailer would be interested in occupying what looks like a Victorian sweet shop. The write-off will be horrendous.

As to the redundancies, the statutory minimum, I suggest. And something must be done about the pension scheme. As befits a business that has barely moved on from the century before last, this is one of those final-salary schemes whereby the wretches are guaranteed a living wage into their dotage. These have no place in a modern company outside the boardroom, in my view.

I have asked our lawyers if there is any way of reneging on our responsibilities. Perhaps if we stop paying and wait for the brutes to die off? They seem dubious.

WEDNESDAY

My old friend Nigel Rudd is in trouble over the number of boardroom posts he occupies. I must give him the benefit of my experience. Damn the corporate box-tickers, Nigel. Full speed ahead. Alternatively, if you really are overstretched, I might be able to find the odd hole in my diary . . .

At Bloomberry’s, the closures and redundancies have been announced, to a predictable chorus of disapproval from the usual Moaning Minnies who seem to think we have a duty to compensate every loyal employee we sack.

And the heritage people have been on about those shop fronts.

I see a rival has just seen its well-insured warehouse, crammed full of stuff no one will be buying this Christmas, go up in flames. An accident, too. Some people have all the luck.

I suspect that a selective outbreak of arson, featuring several hundred distinctive candy-striped shop fronts up and down the land, might raise awkward questions.

(Later.) I return to my London apartment to find my nextdoor neighbour, one of our best-paid silks, in a state of some distress. It seems he has unwisely signed up to buy an ocean-going cruiser on the expectation of his payments from the BCCI case in the High Court.

Now that the case has collapsed, such is the fragility of his finances that he is in danger of having to fall back on his existing yacht. I tell him to look on the bright side. The legal squabble over costs will go on for years.

THURSDAY

The situation at Bloomberry’s is even worse than we thought. It seems that the pension fund is lamentably underfunded, and the company is bankrupt in all but name. I suggest we call in the receivers.

I have been quietly approached by a large American chain of coffee bars. The Bloomberry’s design is apparently ideal for the creation of a branded chain here. The high street locations are perfect.

I shall bring in City cash to provide the funds and buy the shops for a song off the receivers before the Americans get wind of anything. The chain can then go to them for a healthy profit. My involvement need not be known. I am not without influence in venture capital circles . . .

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