When Raimund Berthold sits in the Soho design studio of his eponymous brand, he often ponders the weather. Perhaps this is unsurprising. At one end is a wall of windows that makes a snug room feel spacious. At the other, the moodboard he’s translating into clothes for next winter. It is a dark affair, both literally and figuratively – cowls, prosthetic limbs, a noose – and hints that the collection will not be kaleidoscopic. “My PR company is always asking for colour,” he laughs. Its representative, silhouetted against sunshine, nods. “They know I like black. But we have pink for next season.”

His own outfit shows no such concessions; a pair of wide-legged black trousers, a matching tunic shirt. Only his glasses buck the colour scheme, their oversized frames flecked with tortoiseshell. They lend him a mole-like air, as if Kenneth Grahame’s hero had spent his hibernation reading i-D, then traded his tweeds for something more directional. “I don’t hate colour,” Berthold says. “I just don’t wear it very much. I don’t like mixing colours together very much. My mind, there’s so much going on that I don’t need that as well.”