The news from Antwerp is grim. At least six dead, a cityscape scarred by flame, and British fire crews crossing the Channel to aid Belgian authorities. One might be tempted to see this as a simple tragedy, a random accident of faulty wiring or human error.
But I am Arthur Penhaligon, and I see something more. I see the smoke of a civilisation that has grown complacent, fat on the laurels of safety regulations and emergency protocols, yet still prone to the ancient furies of fire. The Victorians, for all their moralising, understood that progress was a constant battle against chaos.
They built their cities with a grim determination to impose order on nature, but even they knew that a single spark could undo years of labour. Today, we have forgotten this. We assume that our buildings are fireproof, our responders invincible, our systems foolproof.
Antwerp's blaze, like the Great Fire of London or the burning of Rome, is a sharp, painful corrective. It is not merely a news item. It is a parable for an age that has lost its sense of mortality.
The dispatch of British crews is noble, but it should also be a call to introspection. When did we last examine the foundations of our own safety? When did we last prepare for the inevitable collapse of our carefully constructed lives?
The dead in Antwerp are not just statistics. They are warnings. Heed them, or prepare for more ashes.
