Bertie was in the midst of what one might call a forever life crisis. First there was all that singing of his own songs. That’s what started it. Then there was that time he tried to ride a horse. There was also the extended period during which he refused to use soaps and shampoos and lost many a friend. Not to mention the year he tried to make every day feel like Christmas. Then there was the rock climbing. The go-karting. The intermittent fasting. The sleeping-in-a-field-phase. The organic phase. The steak phase. The cabbage phase. The kleptomaniac phase. The Bette Midler phase. The acting phase, and the wig and glasses phase.
 
Last week, Bertie entered a nudist colony. He was convinced it would provide him with the answers he needed.
 
“We can’t truly free ourselves of capitalistic oppression until we free ourselves from the need to drape ourselves in its garments. The act of putting on clothes equates to a subversion of our natural liberality and, by extension, censors the spirit of man,” Bertie explained to alarmed family and friends as he tossed clothes towards the fireplace.
 
It was the nature of Bertie that he couldn’t be talked out of anything, let alone his forever life crisis. What they called crazy, he called character. He had an answer for everything, and a knack for nothing.
 
Yesterday afternoon, Bertie fell through the roof of the nudist kitchen and impaled himself on a spatula while spying on Cersei in her room as she was getting into her nightgown. Ironic really, but he was desperate to see her clothed having had an eyeful of tits all day.