Tim Key: I have officially resigned. You should have seen the state of my editor...

Our columnist is moving on to pastures new - but he's going out in a blaze of glory

(Ping Zhu)

This week I resigned. As in, I resigned from my position as columnist. As in, this job here. As in, at The Independent Magazine. As in, I marched into The Independent Magazine offices, barrelled through my editor's glass doors, slammed down my laptop and said, "That's it – that's me – I'm done." He didn't put up too much of a fight, to be fair to him.

It's amazing how you can build these things up in your mind and then, when it comes down to it, it's not half as bad as you'd imagined it would be. For days I'd been fretting. Imminent resignation isn't a fun thing to have on your plate. In my case, I was convinced my editor would just lose it. Throw a paperweight at my neck and call me a mad man. I imagined him picking the paperweight back up, rolling his pin-striped sleeve up and hurling it at me a second time. I imagined other columnists streaming through the doors and helping him. Pinning me down. Smearing my face with ink. I imagined one of them trying to crush my hand in the photocopier.

At other times, I'd imagine it going the other way. I'd picture him crying "Nooo!" on hearing of my intentions. I visualised him running round the back of me, locking the doors, pushing me into his armchair and opening a bottle of Scotch or similar. "Don't be hasty, son. We can work this out. You gotta stay, though." I imagined him clutching my wrist and drawing it to his chest. "Just do six more months, Tim. Seriously. Half a year! At least do that." I pictured all sorts of things. In the end, none of them really happened. I explained I was off and Will said OK.

When I think about it, my resignations have rarely involved too many histrionics. When I finally severed links with the newsagents at 16, they couldn't have been more amenable. I handed in my large orange bag, they handed me my final £6 pay cheque and I waddled off into the distance wondering what my future held for me. Similarly, when I was fired from Hamleys, there was very little fanfare. Just the depressing sight of a 25-year-old peeling off his royal-blue fleece, trying to shake a couple of hands, and sliding off into Soho. There's never much drama. Just a sad acceptance that nothing lasts forever.

In Will's case, there was a calmness about his reaction, which I admired. No matter how much his instincts might have been telling him to fight – to fight for his columnist – he kept them in check beautifully. I think his exact words were "OK" and "You'll probably have to file two more while we find someone else". He was certainly doing a better job than me on the "fighting back tears" front. I've grown attached to this job, I've enjoyed the deadlines, and I've become dependent on the money. I was saying all this between huge, heaving sobs. Will listened to it all. Occasionally he sipped his coffee. At one point I asked him if I was mad for leaving. He said something wise about all good things coming to an end. I said I thought I might be making a terrible decision. He said he thought my decision was fine.

So now this is me. Working out my notice. Once I've filed this one, I think I just have one more to go. But I won't wind down. The temptation, of course, is simply to "phone it in". Like these Premier League footballers you see, who take their foot off the gas in the final months of the season because they know they're off in the summer. Why bother flying in for tackles if you know you'll be in Rome come August?

And I might. God knows what I'll do next, but I'd obviously be a fool to rule out Rome. Until then, I'm determined to absolutely nail my final column. To go out in a blaze of glory. Seven hundred words left to write. And I'm gonna make them count.