Yuja Wang is the hottest pianist in the world. And I am the hottest music critic. We’re sitting outside the Philharmonie in Luxembourg, gently roasting in a heatwave. Wang, who is dressed in running kit — vest and shorts, although I’m not sure whether there has actually been any running — is delighted by the sunshine.

For someone whose regular habitat is concert halls, windowless rehearsal rooms and, to her constant chagrin, airports, the baking hot plaza is clearly an absolute tonic. I steer us towards a table at a nearby café, in the shade. “I have a free day,” the diminutive pianist gabbles happily. “I love it when the weather’s nice. I love parks, taking a walk. In New York you can do anything.