Easily the most satisfying job I’ve done in two dozen years as a journalist was writing a series of articles describing the offices of famous chief executives. I used to ring them and try to persuade them to let me come and inspect their desks, their family photos and their bookshelves. Most were wise and said no. But a few were either unsuspecting or vain enough to agree and so, for a brief period, I was allowed to indulge my natural nosiness – and get paid for it.

Poking about in someone’s office felt even better than poking around in their bathroom cabinet. Not only was I able to disparage their colour schemes but I could also play armchair psychologist and declare what it all meant.