The news the other day that Richard Branson is to convert the iconic India Buildings on Edinburgh’s Victoria Street into a Virgin hotel reminded me of the night I stayed at his very first Virgin hotel, a former country mansion in the heart of the New Forest. I arrived there, sticky and tired, in the late afternoon of a hot day in August. A cheerful young chap took my bag and showed me to my ground floor room, which looked out onto the manicured lawn and the forest fringe at the rear of the building. Thankfully, the room’s two windows were wide open, their frames having been swung out and latched over the lawn. But a large, fat, hairy, stuffed cat occupied the middle of the bed. “This is Fluffy,” said the chap in as serious a voice as he could muster. “Instead of hanging a notice on the door to indicate that you don’t want to be disturbed, just put Fluffy out in the corridor instead. One of Richard’s ideas for a different hotel experience,” he added. I couldn’t help it; I sighed audibly. “Another thing to point out,” the chap went on quickly. “You’ll see notepads and pencils placed at strategic points round the room, as well as in the.. um… bathroom. They’re there in case you have any thoughts that you want to jot down immediately.” I tried to smile, but I ended up sighing again, louder than before. “Another of Richard’s ideas,” the chap explained with a poker face. “Apparently, he has notepads and pencils all over his home for that purpose.” That evening, I dined on my own in the Alhambra Room, so called because, as a gift to his lady, the original owner of the mansion had the room re-modelled in beaten gold to resemble part of the famous Alhambra Palace in Granada. It was an unnerving experience, though, like eating inside a glitter-ball, and I was glad to return to my room. Before retiring, I left the windows open, but I took Fluffy by the tail and lobbed it into the corridor. Some hours later, in the deep of night, I was suddenly roused from my sleep by a very loud bang close to me. It took me a few moments to realise that someone or something outside had collided with one of the window frames. I knew the something was a deer, of course, but I was secretly hoping it had been Richard’s head.