Dear former colleagues,

Occasionally, in the small hours, when I’ve reached the bottom of a third bottle of pinot and am preparing to curl up in one corner of the climate-controlled wine cellar until it's time for a tin of braised steak and onions and Surf Patrol, it occurs to me that retirement has robbed me of some of my sense of purpose.

I have also heard rumours that some of you in the newspaper division miss me so much that you have erected a shrine to me in the cupboard under the sink in the second floor tea room, where you leave offerings of fruit and fake Chinese money. As such, I have agreed to act occasionally in a consultancy role, as your new shitbird "CEO" settles in.