SITTING in a discreet corner of a grand London hotel, Sting is the Englishman who just flew in from New York. Dressed in black, he’s a picture of understated elegance, his well-preserved 70-year-old features framed by milky winter sun filtering through the window behind him.
He yawns and apologises for jet lag but, as I quickly learn, his mind is sharp. Taking in the scene from the other side of a small table, I notice a completed Financial Times crossword — the big, difficult cryptic one on the salmon-pink paper’s back page. “I’m impressed,” I say. “But I don’t ALWAYS finish it,” he replies with due modesty.
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