In the classic 1986 coming-of-age drama Stand by Me, a group of kids overcome personal trauma, neglectful families, knife play and leeches to forge deep bonds that can only be developed in dreadful situations. Leeches are pretty bad, but have you ever tried working in an office?

One of my first ‘grown-up jobs’ (meaning: a job that didn’t involve me scooping ice-cream or selling t-shirts emblazoned with ‘EMO CAN’T DIE’) was at a trendy creative agency I had no business being at. I was in my early 20s and though I was ambitious, I was a baby in every way that mattered. I wore manky ballet flats every day and wondered why my knees hurt so much. Outside of peanut butter toast and two-minute noodles, I barely knew how to feed myself. I spent mornings and afternoons dodging ticket inspectors like I was in the French Resistance and it was 1944.

I wasn’t proud of this immaturity – you won’t find any “why can’t I adult!” lamentations in my social media history. Entering an office environment is one of the first times you interact with people of different ages and life stages who aren’t related to you. I didn’t want to test the patience of any of my new colleagues – I wanted to be considered their peer. The biggest test of my compatibility with my workmates didn’t take place on my laptop, however. It took place in the shared kitchen.

The kitchen is both political and sensitive, as anyone who has ever been in a sharehouse row can attest. There are certain rules in a shared office kitchen, much more sensitive than a sharehouse kitchen: don’t microwave fish; clean up (literal) spilt milk; don’t be the one who steals forks (somehow, someone always steals forks. Are they doing it on purpose? Do they just seal it in their Tupperware container and forget? I’m desperate to talk to a Fork Stealer so if you are one, please write in). Working the coffee machine at this job was as scary as it got. I remember one intern using it incorrectly, milk wand screaming, and the CEO marching over and yelling “WHO THE HELL IS DOING THAT?” I didn’t make a coffee for a week after that.

The worst thing that happened in this kitchen had nothing to do with etiquette, though. Well, not completely. One morning, as the heater was cranked and late ’90s hip-hop was blaring from the speakers, one of my colleagues was making herself some toast for breakfast. Some of us milled around the kitchen counter, drinking coffee and gabbing, presumably, about whatever episode of Girls had aired the night before.

“What’s that smell?” a senior designer said, walking past. “What’s that smell?” the studio manager said, covering her nose. “What’s that smell!” we all asked each other, looking under tables and opening the fridge. My colleague’s toast popped up and she let out a yelp.

A few weeks earlier, there had been a few mouse sightings around the studio. An email had gone out reminding people to keep the kitchen as clean as possible as a deterrent. The problem had seemingly resolved itself without intervention. In any case, we’d all forgotten. Until the day that a mouse crawled into the toaster and then popped again, crisp and dead as a doornail. Like knife play and leeches, Toaster Mouse bonded us together.

Those days sweating in the communal kitchen felt endless. Would I ever feel comfortable making a noisy 3pm coffee when everyone was working in deep flow? (Those were the days when I could easily put away four coffees in eight hours – now the thought of more than one coffee makes my skeleton rattle.) But then it happens so gradually that you don’t notice it. You stop counting the number of times you get up to refill your water bottle, because you realise no one cares. You wait and chat to the person making their coffee, instead of peeking at the machine and avoiding the area until it’s free. You begin to have in-jokes with your older colleagues, mostly mimicking puking anytime anyone mentions the toaster.

You leave these jobs eventually but, if you’re lucky, those relationships don’t disappear. Those terrified interns get older and get other roles, get married and have kids. The ones who would not use the milk wand, ever, end up running their own departments. I’ve gotten to work with some of the people from that first office again. Some of them are still my best friends today. When we get together, we never eat toast.

Sinead Stubbins’ first novel Stinkbug is out now.

This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 127. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.