Imagine the scene: a Sunday evening near the river in Battersea, and a young architect is wandering around Norman Foster's riverside office, admiring the curtain wall. Without warning a bald-pated man vaults over a wall and runs off down the road. A cat burglar? No, Norman himself out for a late-night jog, wearing what Astragal's spy describes as '70s-style running shorts'.
GET INSTANT ACCESS
for less than 46p a day
You’ll get instant access to read this article -
and 53,000+ articles like it.