We set out fourteen days ago, three of us. It was a Wednesday, we were at work, discussing charts and scales and office politics. Years and years, just the same day over and over again. I snapped. “Guys, fuck all this. Let’s go to Panama.” They were confused. I brought them muffins. They came round to the idea. We didn’t even quit, we just left, half-drunk coffees on the desk. We were all unattached and free. We would start a new life. We could do anything we liked. And we did. And now we’re in Panama. And it’s shit. We should probably go back.