He’d made the entirely rational decision to go mad. Not the tired old pencils-in-your-nostrils-and-hope-they-say-you-can’t-fight sort of mad. No, Clive had started as he’d meant to go on and fully committed himself to insanity.
It had been a wet Saturday. He had been sitting in the bath, not listening to Gardeners’ Question Time, and it had come to him. Why not go completely bonkers? He was happiest when his grip on reality was loosest, when his usually one-track mind trundled down shaded branch lines. Why not, indeed?
He’d blown bubbles from his kneecaps and started as he meant to go on.
V for vignette 