TODAY I publicly thank Great Western Railway for opening my eyes to a profound truth and relieving me of an immense burden of guilt.

I learned a few days back that the company formerly known as First Great Western issues more than 100 apologies to customers every day about problems with its services.

Indeed, GWR earned a mention in the New York Times, which sent a reporter to meet its social media team.

“Apart from Northern Rail,” said the piece in one the world’s most famous, most read and most respected newspapers, “GWR is one of the sorriest train lines of them all.”

Here’s where the revelation came in.

I’d always been led to believe that saying the word ‘sorry’ to somebody mean you were telling them: “I realise I have inflicted some entirely unwarranted inconvenience or harm, and I want you to know I recognise what I did was wrong. Please be assured of my unhappiness at having treated you in such a manner and rest assured that I shall make every effort not to do such a thing or anything like it ever again.”

Then I reflected on Great Western Railway saying it more than 100 times a day, more or less every day, with no end in sight, and realised ‘sorry’ is just a thing to say when caught doing something wrong. It implies no moral obligation to change anything about one’s behaviour.

This came as an immense relief to me, as I’ve always been one of those socially-anxious people with a horror of doing anything that might be perceived as inconsiderate or cruel. Now I know that all I need do is say ‘sorry’ and everything will be fine.

For example, the next time I’m supposed to be home in time for some kind of family gathering at 6pm on a Saturday, I’ll stay at the pub and do a couple of dozen shots of tequila instead.

If any members of the family, especially that cousin and her husband who recently turned religious, object, I’ll entertain them with some of the dirtiest jokes I know, not to mention a dozen variations on that old limerick which begins: “There was a young man from Nantucket.”

When my life partner reminds me that she’s not so keen in spiders and similarly multi-legged beasties, I’ll no longer let that influence me when I’m passing the pet shop.

She’ll soon get used to sharing the sofa with a bird-eating tarantula the size of a dinner plate, especially if it lets her use the TV remote. Anyway, she’ll be too busy trying to prevent the giant Amazonian centipedes nicking her shoe collection to worry.

I’m also going to stop turning up for work in the morning, driving at less than 50mph down residential streets, paying for stuff in shops before walking out with it and buying food for the cat instead of obliging him to hunt or starve. He can fight the tarantula and the centipede for the juiciest mice.

Oh, and every time I pass a church on a Sunday morning I intend to barge in, stride to the pulpit and urge the congregation to abandon the Bible and worship an assortment of ancient Babylonian demons instead.

In other words, I intend to give the swerve to my moral duties and those for which I am paid.

Obviously my behaviour might at first cause great consternation, distress and anger among those I encounter - but I have an ace up my sleeve.

I’ll just tell people I’m sorry. I’ll tell them that every day for ever, although I naturally won’t be following up on those apologies with any concrete assurances that I’ll change my behaviour. Just saying the word will be fine.

I’m sure there won’t be any negative consequences for me...