MY God I’ve got the urge. That fierce, painful, obsessive impulse to just say to colleagues: “Look, does anyone want anything from the shops? I’m just going out to grab a decent coffee. No? Okay, see you in a bit...”

And there’d they’d sit, unaware, possibly not thinking about me at all, indeed more than likely slagging me off like we all do about everyone we work with.

But then 30 minutes becomes an hour, and an hour becomes two and before you know it, the day’s over and I’m nowhere to be seen.

Naturally they’d be worried, genuinely, and anxious and concerned about my welfare, but whoever said running away was fair or considerate? Because, of course, that’s what I’d have done. Walked straight out this office, desperately fighting to control my excitement, trying to look to all to the world as if it’s business as usual when really it’s anything but.

I don’t have a plan – who does at these times? – but I stop off at a cash machine, draw out everything I can, check and recheck I have my credit card and then board the first train out of Oxford, jubilant, ecstatic, almost whooping with joy at the sheer recklessness of it all to think for a second about the consequences.

When I finally get to Heathrow, I buy one ticket, one-way, to Patagonia.

I’ve no idea what’s there – no friends, no family, no sense at all about its language, weather, economic climate, but it sounds romantic and that’s good enough.

I board the plane, and on the flight out, strike up a conversation with the beautiful woman next to me, a doctor, returning home, and by the time we land, I’ve learnt she’s single and kind (hell, hasn’t she just invited me to stay at her place until I can sort myself out?). Inevitably we fall in love (like I didn’t already know that on the plane), marry, start a family, and despite our huge individual successes – she goes on to head her country’s public health programme, I become a best-selling writer of intense and deeply meaningful novels – we never lose sight of the thrill of it all.

And then one ordinary, unexceptional day, I spot an ageing tourist, lost on the cordillera, and as I stop to offer assistance, a spark of recognition flashes between us.

“I know this sounds silly,” I say, “but weren’t you Bob Sanders from Accounts, back in Oxford?”

“I still am,” he says. “And weren’t you Jeremy Smith who disappeared way back in 2011. In fact, start of that year if I remember correctly?”

We hug, we laugh, I tell him how fantastic and colourful my life has been, he tells me about being made redundant in 2014 and the onset of gout. And then we part, but as we do he says: “Best thing you ever did was run away son, best thing you ever did...”.

Still, back in the real world, today is Monday, January 3, I’m sat at my desk, it’s a Bank Holiday, Christmas is over, and the canteen is still shut.

You know what? I think I may step out to get a real coffee and just see what happens.