La felicidad era esto

'We are police officers, sir. We have reason to believe that you may be using a stolen credit card, the property of a Mr Edward Bridges of Solihull.'
'Ah,' I said and smiled.
All at once a hundred thousand gallons of acid poison poured out of me and a hundred thousand pounds of lead fell from my shoulders.
'Yes. Yes,' I said. 'I'm afraid that you are absolutely right.'
'If you wouldn't mind coming with us, sir? I am arresting you now and will shortly make a formal charge at the station.'
I was so happy, so blissfully, radiantly, wildly happy that if I could have sung I would have sung. If I could have danced I would have danced. I was free. At last I was free. I was going on a journey now where every decision would be taken for me, every thought would be thought for me and every day planned for me. I was going back to school.
I almost giggled at the excitement and televisual glamour of the handcuffs, one for my right wrist the other for the policeman's left. (pág. 401)

Stephen Fry, Moab is My Washpot, Arrow Books, 1998.

[I know that my early life was at one and the same time so common as to be unremarkable, and so strange as to be the stuff of fiction. I know of course that this is how all human lives are, but that it is only given to a few of us to luxuriate in the bath of self-revelation, self-curiosity, apology, revenge, bafflement, vanity and egoism that goes under the name Autobiography. You have seen me at my washpot scrubbing at the grime of years: to wallow in a washpot may not be the same thing as to be purified and cleansed, but I have come away from this very draining, highly bewildering and passionately intense few months feeling slightly less dirty. Less dirty about the first twenty years of my life, at least. The second twenty, now that is another story... (pág. 434)]