He considered the fact of the city beyond, the teeming millions packed into so little space. There had been a time, not so long ago, when the population of the capital, the sheer press of humanity, had filled him with claustrophobia. He smiled to himself now at the irony of the notion.He picked up his pen and completed the entry in his journal. "So I have no rational explanation for what is happening to me. It has crossed my mind more than once that I am going mad – or maybe that I am already mad."He paused there, staring out at the playground that abutted the heath. Swings described precise arcs against a background of tarmac and daffodils. The roundabout turned slowly, as if moved by the wind."And yet," he wrote, "I cannot accept this. Madness is no explanation. What has befallen me is not, I am sure, the result of some unique mental aberration, some dysfunction on a neurological level. What is happening must have an external cause. It is the world out there that has gone mad, not me." He paused again, then added: "But isn't that what all madmen claim?"He closed his journal.
