Or whatever they call work. Sitting at a flickering screen, hunting and gathering data, strikes me as a poor substitute for the thrill of the chase, the joy of the kill, the kiss of conquest. There is no romance, no mortal struggle, in digitised so-called work. It is a virtual pursuit, without real vice or virtue. Mine, on the other hand, is a people profession, hence almost obsolescent.

It would not do to enquire too closely into the purpose of my trip. ‘Is your journey really necessary?’ nagged the railway hoardings during the war. No, not enough to convince the auditors, who will slash my expenses claim on seeing the negligible returns. Nor to satisfy Myrtle, who will raise a quizzical eyebrow and register a connubial debt. There is no pot of gold at the end of my trail nor, truth be told, enough profit to interest a Sunday boot-saler – which is not, of course, what I tell the accountants (‘must keep in touch with consumer trends’), or Myrtle (‘meeting a familiar face can make all the difference when money’s tight’). What matters is that I know why I am going, and I don’t have to make excuses to myself. Escape, or the illusion of it, is what keeps me alive and my business more or less solvent.

Survival instinct propels me through the Euston crowds towards a reserved first-class seat on the nine-oh-three Intercity Express, my chest pounding with unaccustomed effort and an absurd anticipation of adventure. Absurd, because previous expeditions have attested beyond reasonable doubt that any prospect of adventure will get scotched at source by my innate reserve and speckless propriety – attributes that are bound to be mentioned in my none-too-distant obsequies, alongside the Dear Departed’s musical expertise, mordant wit and discreet philanthropy.

Adventure is, in any case, antithetical to my nature and inadvisable in my state of health. Furred arteries and a fear of bypass surgery have imposed severe restraints. I am limited to six lengths of the health-club pool and half a mile on the electronic treadmill; excitement is strenuously avoided; conjugality is conducted rarely and with the circumspection of porcupines. ‘Take care of yourself,’ are Myrtle’s parting words and, for her sake, I do try. In the absence of marital ardour, it’s the least I can do.

Yet, even a rackety, unbypassed old heart can be stirred by departure fantasy. As I board the train, my pulse picks up ten points in fake anticipation. I look ahead breathlessly, with a reassuring sense of déjà vu. It’s like watching televised football highlights on a Saturday night when you’ve already heard the classified results on the radio. The programme may reveal some fine points of form and skill, but any tension has been ruled out by an incontrovertible foreknowledge of the outcome.