I have a theory about the secret of human happiness. Really, I don't think it's all that complicated. Human beings simply want to feel in control of their lives. They seek the contentment that comes from bringing order to their existence. All too often that sense of control eludes them, causing worry and disenchantment.

But there is, I contend, a solution. And like all solutions that come to their authors in the middle of the night, lie around in the brain's sock drawer for a while before appearing in print, grab the attention of major publishing houses and turn the creator into an international self-help guru who sells millions of books and travels to stadium gigs in a private jet, it is a simple one. All you need is two weeks.

Yes, that's it. Two weeks. A fortnight. Fourteen days. Take away sleeping time and that's just 224 hours. But 224 hours is a lot of time when you think what you could do with it. That's right. You could get to grips with all those things that you really want to sort out but never do because something more pressing slips on to the “to do” list above them.

I'm not talking about things that you'd quite like to do, such as reading all of Dickens, or sorting out the garden, or climbing a mountain on every continent. Those are tasks reserved for another column entitled What I Would Do If I Had Another Lifetime. I am thinking of the undone stuff that lurks at the back of your mind causing unease.

For me the fortnight would begin with the filing cabinet. Such is the Augean stables-sized labour involved in getting to grips with the filing cabinet and its satellite collections of papers in cupboards and piles under the eaves, that I would be hard-pushed to ensure that my fortnight did not end, along with my mental wellbeing, in a sea of 15-year-old bank statements and university-era correspondence.

But if I could find the single-mindedness and stamina of a solo round-the-world yachtsman, I might complete this liberating personal audit and be able to move on to the other Herculean tasks on my schedule.

Much of my fortnight would be spent tackling technology. The last time I mentioned my iPod here it was still sitting in its box, more than a year after its purchase. Well, it is now out and sitting snugly atop a sleek hi-fi system. The only drawback is that we have downloaded only half a dozen tracks from iTunes and a similar number of CDs from our collection. Pressing the “shuffle” button unleashes a somewhat eclectic and not altogether satisfying mix of Bill Haley, The Cult and If You're Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands.

Organising the family digital photographs is a similarly overwhelming project. At present there are more than 4,000 images on the computer, seemingly in random order. Some glitch has ensured that an unknown number are duplicates. A good two days of uninterrupted toil needed there.

The same goes for updating my address book with all the useful numbers that I have scrawled down in notebooks and then forgotten to transfer.

Next to the stack of notebooks on my desk is a 2ft pile of yellowing newspaper cuttings. These are a not-quite-complete collection of the articles I have writen over the past five years, waiting to be stuck into the splendid hardback cuttings book gathering dust under my desk.

Obviously, these last two tasks should have been completed during work time. But somehow once you've finished moaning in print about not having time for such labours, well, there really isn't any time left to do them.

You have, I know, a similarly irritating list. It's no use just taking a week's holiday and thinking you will obliterate it. I've just done that and I achieved the square root of sweet nothing. Long-term sources of discontent get gazumped on the “to do” list, normal life intrudes and you end up feeling even more dissatisfied. The only solution is to divorce yourself from your normal life for a fortnight and plough through your list. Of course, to test my theory you will need some help.

You need a sabbatical from your job and the rest of your life. That will involve some tricky conversations. Working out how to do that will consume a major portion of the bestselling Just Two Weeks self-help book. I'll give you some exclusive hints on how to proceed as soon as I've found time to work out the answers.

damian.whitworth@thetimes.co.uk