Bale nods towards the leather chair that is strategically positioned to be four inches lower than his. It’s a ham-fisted attempt at intimidation. I sigh; this man is a parody. I sit down and wait.

He waits too.

Silently.

Then he grins. It’s the cruellest smile I’ve ever seen and it totally fails to ignite his eyes. I wonder if he is going to sack me. I feel a bead of sweat run down my back. It’s cold. If he calls me Jocasta this is serious.

‘Jocasta, I want an idea.’ He bangs his fist on the desk. I force myself not to jump. I know we are at war. But then, I always am. His gesture is unnecessary but I understand his motivation. He knows, as well as I do, that every eye on the floor is turned towards us. He likes to appear passionate; it’s very new millennium.

‘We’re in trouble, Cas.’ Because he calls me Cas, I realize that we may be in trouble but I am not. He needs me. I allow myself to relax enough to take in what he is saying. He flings the channel’s weekend viewing figures over the desk. I don’t pick them up to examine them. I don’t have to. I checked them this morning at 7.30 a.m. They are terrible.

Not content with being one of the youngest executive producers at ITV and managing some of the strongest shows for a main commercial channel, two years ago I decided I needed new challenges. I took a leap of faith and joined a consortium led by a group of guys with enough venture capital and balls to bid for the franchise of a new channel. Our team won the bid for TV6 by insisting that instead of being yet another publisher broadcaster, filling airtime with programmes shipped in from the US, we would produce new programmes. I had visions of producing challenging, dynamic, informative and startling programmes. I threw away my six-figure salary, company Porsche, obscene expense account, private healthcare, pension and gym membership, and moved to TV6. To be clear, this was not an act of altruism.