I wake at 5.45am with four dogs on the bed: Hot and Cold, our westies, Chilly, a big labrador, and Hemington — a cross between a labrador and a cocker spaniel. I check the time on my Ball watch — it fluoresces in red, blue and green. I buy pyjamas from Charvet in Paris, who embroider “Do not disturb DT” or “DT sleeping” on the pocket. The most luxurious thing is to change your fine Egyptian-cotton pyjamas and sheets each day. I go to my study, where I’m very spoilt. My housekeeper brings me orange juice, fruit and coffee made with freshly pulverised Colombian beans. Every other day she adds a touch of cardamom to sharpen the taste. In the loo, I switch on the BBC World Service.

Sitting at my desk, I watch Sky News and read the South China Morning Post, Herald Tribune and Financial Times. I don’t have a laptop — I’ve never touched a mouse in my life — but this summer I’m launching an internet company. I check my BlackBerry for e-mails and go through the papers delivered from the office the previous night. I’m meticulous about answering e-mails within 24 hours. One of three secretaries — she’s the Lara Croft of dictation — deals with my business matters. On January 1 the government banned smoking in offices.

I smoke Punch Double Corona Cabinet cigars, cut in half, and hardly go to the office any more. I’d rather be at home.

The next three hours, from 9 to 12, are my time. I shower using Kiehl’s plainest shampoo and Roger & Gallet soap, sitting on a built-in seat with water raining down on me from a huge shower head. I say hello to Lucy, then get on my cross-trainer. We love to crack a joke in the morning, but we’re competitive about keeping fit. In the last 18 months I’ve lost 35lb. Wherever I am in the world, my office faxes crosswords from the Telegraph and Times. I make a start on the easier Telegraph, aiming to finish as much as possible in the 35 minutes I’m on the cross-trainer. Then I do weights, with an opera DVD playing on screen.

When I came to England at 13 I hadn’t heard of Mozart, Bach or Beethoven. Now classical music is an integral part of my life. I own a 9ft Steinway grand. There’s no point having anything less, especially if you’re not good. I’m working on the last movement of the Moonlight Sonata. I get terribly cross knowing I don’t pay enough attention to fingering. We amateurs are very sloppy on fingering. I’m lucky to get half an hour at the piano. The phone rings constantly. My businesses — apart from Shanghai Tang, restaurants and clubs — have involved oil exploration, cigars and gold-mining. I’m doing many things, including a new hotel. And I’m president of the Hong Kong Youth Arts Foundation and founder chairman of the Hong Kong Cancer Fund and Down’s Syndrome Association. In autumn 2005 I begged the government to take on one or two young Down’s-syndrome people in the civil service. After six months, I’d heard nothing. Now triumph! The government has employed two Down’s-syndrome youngsters at the post office.

I have lunch in one of my two Hong Kong places: the China Club or Cipriani. Then I have meetings, which I hate.

I travel a great deal, giving speeches every other week. I’m chairman of a company selling private jets, and I have generous friends who might lend me a plane or let me hitch a ride. If I have to fly commercial, I use British Airways Special Services. I just take a briefcase. I have clothes in most of the places I go — suits made by Welsh & Jeffrey, tailors to Eton. I didn’t go to Eton, but my mother always said people will think you did if you wear suits by their tailor.

As a child I adored my grandmother, but my grandfather was a nightmare. He founded the Kowloon bus company and became one of Hong Kong’s greatest philanthropists. When we grandchildren wanted to see him, we had to go through his secretary. Then the Chinese Almanac had to be consulted. When my father, barely a year old, was very ill, my grandfather was alarmed at the prospect of the premature death of his only son. To comfort him, my great-grandmother — believing my father would die — lied to him out of kindness. She told my grandfather he shouldn’t grieve because the family soothsayer had said my father would blacken his life. He miraculously recovered, but it was too late. My grandfather considered his son as one who must not be near him, lest his own life become adversely affected. So he sent him away with my grandmother and never asked to see them again.

I’m grateful to have a lifestyle I enjoy. But I wouldn’t go crazy if I were to lose it tomorrow. I can cook. I could go to the supermarket — the most hideous thing — and I know how to use the launderette. Since turning 50 I’m not as sociable. By 5pm I want to be home with Lucy, my books, poetry and my piano. Our cook makes dinner — Chinese, Indian or European. Unless it’s to the cinema, I hate going out. I used to buy the two seats in front of us so no big heads got in the way, but Hong Kong’s cinemas are better now, so I’ve stopped.

I read and go to bed late. Before I go to sleep I watch 24 or a bit of crap on television. Lucy and I laugh a lot. But as we slide into those newly ironed crisp sheets, both of us say: “Thank God.” We live in fear that this can’t last. Something is going to go wrong

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