Ever get that feeling that someone’s stalking you? With me, it’s Philippe Starck, prolific French designer of global renown. I’ve never met M. Starck, but everywhere I go, there he is. I go to Paris: a giant gilded flowerpot on a plinth outside the Pompidou Centre signals an exhibition of his work. I come back to London: he has designed lounges at both ends of the Eurostar run and a couple of upmarket hotels. I go to New York - and I’m put up in the poky, gloomy faux-baronial Hudson Hotel, one of several by Starck in the city. I go shopping, anywhere, and there are his chairs, his lamps, his luggage, even his own specially tortured shape of pasta. I riffle through the glossy mags: there’s Starck. And his ubiquitous god-dammed lemon squeezer.