When I was at university I spent a summer travelling around Europe with some friends, and one of them suggested we drop in on his parents’ place in the south of France.
There are two things I remember about that visit. There was the mortification of being greeted by a butler who ceremoniously carried my tatty luggage — a few things stuffed into a plastic bag — to the suite of rooms to which I’d been allocated. But what stays in my mind even more was the image of his father — who turned out to be a famous tycoon — clad in small swimming trunks with cigar clamped between teeth, holding a gin and tonic in one hand and a telephone receiver in the other.
The year was 1979 and this was what power looked like. The man was too important to be out of touch with the deals he was doing. So he had installed a telephone line by the swimming pool and passed his summers issuing instructions from a lounger by the water.