When it happened a few weeks ago, at first I thought I was just a little unsteady on my feet after an ill-advised school night of drinking.

My desk is a little jittery, perhaps I’d just be pounding the keyboard with unnecessary vigour? Once it passed, I looked up and saw my colleagues wearing confused expressions.

Plenty of them don’t even touch the sauce, so perhaps we were sharing a mass hysteria. It was, it turns out, a mild earthquake, and the first I’d ever experienced. It was interesting in a “well, I can say I’ve experienced an earthquake now” sort of way.

When it happened last night, and I was eight floors up, I knew what it was immediately. When it didn’t cease after a couple of seconds I threw on some trackie bums, made sure I’d updated Twitter with the pithy ‘fucking earthquake again!!!’ and legged it for the interior fire escape.

I couldn’t tell you how long it lasted, because I was negotiating the stairs two or three at a time in flip flops, seemingly chased by my neighbours. As we got out into the cool night air, where a significant proportion of the rest of the building were, the ground was steady beneath us.

When it happened this morning, I knew exactly what it was. A whisky hangover.

Last night, we all needed something to steady ourselves post-quickedy ‘quake.