To BBC Television Centre for an editorial meeting, where I was to spend far too much time stuck in a lift.
It was terrible. For long, long minutes, we all stood there trying not to broach the inevitable, but before long I was the one who broke the silence.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone", all the while staring at the weedy-looking bloke at the back of the elevator car. Survival of the fittest, and all that.
"Let's not be too hasty about this," he squeaked, "we've only been here a few minutes."
Yeah, right. Minutes become hours, become weeks. Best to strike now while the supplies are fresh.
"As I said, I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone."
"But I've got sandwiches!" he wailed, the desperation heavy on his voice, his mouth running dry with fear, "I've just been to 'Pret'."
My trapped colleagues closed in on the wretch, saliva already dripping from their mouths in the expectation of the hot, raw flesh between their teeth, and the sating blood running down their throats. My Swiss Army keyring fell into my hand, ready to deliver the coup de grace.
And the lift shuddered back into life, the doors opening on the second floor.
A new passenger.
He who goes by the name 'Wogan'.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to eat someone."