In 25 years of interviewing athletes, I’ve learnt that they never ask you anything back. Roger Federer is the exception. In the van to his private jet, he bombards me with questions: how badly have the gilets jaunes smashed up Paris, where I live? Do I have children? When he discovers I have twins (he has two sets, one female, one male), and that my mother, like his, came from northern Johannesburg, he grins with delight: “We could be like brothers.” He speaks near-perfect English, with some of the singsong rhythm of his native Swiss-German.

This morning we are flying his shared NetJets plane from Zurich to Madrid, where he’s playing a tournament. We take off almost vertically: private jets fly at over 40,000 feet, higher than commercial planes, and whizz through the thin and nearly traffic-free air.

Federer and I sit facing each other in soft beige leather armchairs. The stewardess unfolds a dining table between us. Our fellow passengers — two of Federer’s fitness coaches and a NetJets man — loll on a sofa at the back of the cabin. I feel as if I’m in a magazine advertisement for first-class life. My tablemate, despite a slightly bulbous nose, is as beautiful as a Roman god. With his long legs slung over each other, he looks perfectly at ease in his body. He smiles and makes eye contact with the confidence of a man accustomed to getting a good response from everybody he meets. Unlike many athletes, he doesn’t need an agent by his side to censor his speech.