It's amazing how you trundle along through life, and then something comes along and throws everything out the proverbial window.

That happened to me the other day. It was unplanned and uncalled for. There was no need for life to do it. I mean, there are plenty of other people in the world for it to pick on. Why did it choose to rain on my parade?

I'm thirty, been around a bit, and I know, quite happily where I'm going. At least I did.

I have a long-term boyfriend; he's not perfect, then again, neither am I. I have him trained to do housework, wash dishes, programmed to use the washing machine and he's even toilet trained (In that he lifts the toilet seat before he goes). He remembers my birthday (The threat of death helped there), buys gifts of clothes in the right size (Though his taste in colour leads a LOT to be desired) and he has the good grace to get me drunk before he gets himself sozzled.

As boyfriends go, I consider myself more than lucky, though after seven years something small, circular, metal and glinting wouldn't go amiss. HINT HINT!

It all stemmed from a usual day at work, let me explain.

I'm just a humble office administrator (All right secretary) in a large corporation. I answer the phone when I can be bothered. I type memos for other people to bin before reading. Try and decipher the Russian that people claim is their English handwriting. Poison people with coffee in thermo dynamically dangerous cups that spill more than they hold, whilst dreaming of an operating system that works. Incidentally I already have a slogan for my OS, (It's called 'Doors'): "Why struggle with windows when there is a perfectly good Door." I'm wasted here; I should be upstairs in marketing.

Like every large firm these days, this illustrious company has a drugs policy (i.e. you have to be on them to be in management). Every year, each department has to attend a non-exemption lecture on the evils of drugs and how they make turning up for work on a Monday morning bearable and improve productivity, or something. To be honest, unless they are giving out free samples, I'm not interested.

My desk is a depressing sight. There used to be furry things on springs stuck on the monitor, a calendar of naked men in distracting poses, a large expanse of desk, and a keyboard you could do surgery on. Now? I think the furry things committed life by jumping out of one of the windows; the calendar was removed for being offensive (?) (Though I still have August... ), the desk is still there somewhere and you could do an autopsy on the keyboard, though the lettering on the ctrl alt del keys has long been worn off.

So off we all trooped to the conference room for a sleep. It was everything we had expected, the same as last time. Another firm charging our firm an extortionate amount for a couple of has beens, to ignore our snoring to preach the evils of software piracy, sorry that was last month, drugs, yes that was it, drugs. As usual there were a few corporate climbers at the front, awake and taking notes, probably along the lines (Ha ha) of 'put sharp, pointy metal bit against skin, push in plungy slidy thing'.

Well, I am happy enough with inhaling the fumes off the photocopier cleaner.

Normally I appreciate the sleep, but I had just too great a work back load, to comfortably nod off. I left my seat and to the angry looks of those I awoke, headed to the back of the auditorium, past those that were either texting or making sure their mp3 players still worked.

I reckoned with the rest of the department asleep and the other company departments aware that we were asleep, I might actually get about two weeks work done in the resultant quiet. Getting back at my desk, I ensured some small measure of peace and quiet by unplugging my phone. That is one of the failings of the human race. There could be a raging nuclear war in full swing outside, yet some stupid bugger will still try and phone "on the off chance that someone will be there."

There I was, involved in the eternal search for a paper free desk, when life stepped in and for want of a better phrase, 'Tangoed' me. Tangoed me good and proper (With the fat orange man, slapped ears and everything). In fact so Tangoed was I that I expected the national lottery to jump on the bandwagon with a big hand and pointy finger appearing from the sky with "It's you" reverberating around the office. It would have the best time as otherwise it would have been ignored and the voice lost in the din.

So there I was, involved in the exciting and dangerous world of income tax returns, when I heard a giggle. A giggle so girlish, it could only have come from a gay man. But he was asleep listening to his mp3 player whilst snoring (Gaily). I know this because I past him on my way out of the presentation room.

I tried to ignore it, but another giggle giggled its way to my hearing. It was irritating, so in the great tradition of lonely women in empty buildings, I had to have a look. It could have been screams and the sounds of a revving chainsaw, but I still would have gone for a look, though only to carry out my requisite duties as office manager, (You know, too ensure that psychopath was correctly trained and licensed in the use of a chainsaw, that the fire marshal was warned of the presence of combustible two stroke fuel and that no animals or potted plants would be harmed).

I threaded my way around desks and partitions, following the occasional giggle. Somebody was having fun. Not bloody allowed in this bloody office, or at least not unless I was invited. I walked around a partition and my life went the way of a Windows program. It froze, and then crashed. Somebody pressed the three-fingered salute and whilst my head went through the process of brain disc, I stepped back out of sight in safe mode.

Looking back, had it been an American film, I would probably have joined in. As it was, this was reality and England. What my poor mark 1 eyeballs had just witnessed did not happen in reality or England (With the exception of Christmas office parties. But technically everyone's normally so drunk it doesn't count, the adult equivalent of "My fingers were crossed" or "My feet were off the ground").

We had a school leaver by the name of Anna on a weeks work placement. Not an unusual situation. Like the vast majority of work placements, she was of the bubbly nature. Not yet worn down by the grind of crap boyfriends, shit bosses, and letters from banks about something called a mortgage (Would you kindly PAY it).

I looked around again. They were still at it. They had not noticed me. It was like watching an impending car crash or an execution. You knew what you were about to witness, would stick with you for the rest of your life, but you keep on watching.

Kelly, a woman two years older than me, was sitting on her desk, playing tonsil tennis with a girl almost young enough to be her daughter.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out, I didn't even breathe, I was that stunned. In fact they had gone past the stage of tonsil tennis and were busily trying to suck out each other's brains through the mouth.