It only takes a minute or two to realise that the private office of the fashion designer Paul Smith, tucked in one of the quieter streets in London’s Covent Garden, is a place of rare merriment. Although it is early in the morning, jokes are already beginning to zip across the desks outside the room. Jester-in-chief is Smith himself, tall, lean and ebullient at 76.

He introduces me to a colleague whose name is Cat, and at precisely the same moment a small box in the corner of his office rattles and a furry tiger springs out of it. I am persuaded that the cat dancing for Cat is a coincidence, but only just.

Financial Times