He looks on in his leopard print silk boxers as his multi-million pound island retreat succumbs to the flames, the untied kimono offering a glimpse of a torso a man half his age would be proud of.
The storm which brought the lightening and caused the fire has now passed, but the air remains warm and wet.
Still breathing heavily from the frantic search of the estate, he embraces his family and friends. The fierce blaze illuminates the deep blackness of the Caribbean night sky, its howling cackle shattering its much prized tranquillity. The heat, even at this distance reddens his brow.
His wife squeezes his hand, a single tear rolls down his cheek. This place was his sanctuary, a monument to his years of sacrifice and hard work, a place where he could truly unwind and be himself.
It was being eaten away right before his very eyes, and he was powerless to stop it.
So vivid has this image been in my mind since I learned of the fire at Richard Branson’s luxury island, I felt compelled to write him a letter. In it, I hope he is able to find some comfort, that his steely determination returns and he will find the courage to rebuild what was once his own little piece of heaven.
I have popped this in the post.