I was in the office, kicking an empty Reflex box from the floor and into the side of Lydia’s head when I heard someone mutter a common phrase that people seem compelled to say to me.

“You’ll laugh at anything.”

I can’t actually remember who said it to me this particular time, but I can guess it was one of a few likely staffroom culprits. It was either an old person who laments the loss of decorum in a professional setting, preferring people to sit at their desks and two-finger type at the pace of one word per hour. The same type whose double clicks of the mouse are spaced too far apart, meaning they’ve simply single clicked twice.

“Urgghhhh,” they growl, "this mouse isn’t working!”

They lock their desk drawer, even when they’re sitting at it, afraid someone will steal their centuries-old bulldog clip collection.

If it wasn’t them, it was a younger, perhaps even more irritating archetype. They were previously the king of comedy in the office until someone else came along with their witticisms and their silliness. And it eats this person alive. They daydream about the jokes they made in the past and remember the laughter filling the air to everyone’s delight. And now, someone else is stepping on their territory, so they have to verbally piss all over the room and reclaim Pride Rock.

“Only I can make jokes here,” they whisper, “this is my stage.”

And so they spit, through gritted teeth, enraged by my joy, “You’ll laugh at anything.”

I flung the Reflect box off the end of my toe, over and over, clipping and bouncing and donking it off Lydia’s huge head of hair, but it would never actually land perfectly on the top of her head, as we had imagined. We had an unspoken understanding, it had to land on top and sit over the face, like a helmet. She had to resemble a cardboard Ned Kelly before the game was up. As I steadied myself, Lydia arched backwards, taking in gulps of air to fuel her hysteria and then stood to attention, delivering three crisp claps and taking measured breaths, shaking out her limbs like an Olympic swimmer before a dive.

“I’m ready again,” she panted, “go.”

It occurred to me in this moment that everyone must have a phrase like mine, “you’ll laugh at anything,” that they seem to be magnetic to. A phrase you’ve heard many more than just one time too many. Perhaps it’s not that annoying the first time. Or the second. But it enlivens something in us. Its sentiment is bitter. It’s thoughtless and bland. Or it’s offensively unoriginal.

Over paneer and papadums at home, I asked this question of Rene and Jake. I thought that Rene, being the tallest woman on earth, may have contributed something height related. Ames suggested that Jake’s might be to do with his curly hair.

“I didn’t even know you had curly hair,” I offered, trying for the millionth time not to ask about the scar up one of his arms, assuming he’s been questioned about it a thousand times.

“I cut it,” he sighed, “so that people don’t ask me about it.”

I thought for a second that he was talking about his arm.

“I love curly hair,” I added, stupidly.

Quite apart from her mammoth stature, Rene, known as simply ‘Ren’ to her friends, rolled her eyes, cocked her head to the side and imitated the masses, “Are you friends with Stimpy?”

At this, she crunched a papadum in her mouth for effect.

“And then,” she continued, exasperated, “they ask, ‘Am I the first person to say that?’ And I’m like, ‘of course you’re fucking not you idiot.’”

Jake, apart from his curly hair, knew exactly the thing. Being the son of a famous musician, he has encountered countless questions about his upbringing, mostly unimaginative versions of “what was it like to have a famous dad?”

While we could laugh about it, his story had a sad undercurrent. By avoiding and dreading these questions, he was trying to separate himself from what is at best banal conversation but at worst a crime against his individuality - his identity. How can you be proud of your roots but want to distance yourself from them at the same time? And should Jake, an excellent person in his own right, have to discuss the private lives of himself and his father to perfect strangers?

If only people had better small talk.

My mum has a friend called Lorna. Ames calls Lorna ‘Baby Monkey Lady,’ because when they first met, Lorna was stood at a bar, ordering a cider and cradling a bundle of jackets in the way that only women do when they’ve ended up thanklessly taking responsibility for everyone else’s possessions.

“Oh my god,” Ames said, “I thought that woman was holding a baby monkey! But it’s just jackets.”

Later, Lorna told us that she was looking after her son’s dog while he was overseas on business.

“It’s a Great Dane,” she said, “so it’s quite a job.”

Lorna stands at abut 5 foot 1. So this dog (it were to get around on its hind legs, like all dogs should) could easily wrap its arm around her shoulder and rest its big doggy head on the top of hers.

“So, can you ride it?” I asked.

She gave me that look. It involved closing her eyes for just a moment, as I imagine someone would do when they’re about to jump from a plane.

“I wish you were the first person to ask me that,” she said as she mimicked throttling me with her tiny hands stretched out toward my neck.

I knew that just by asking that stupid question I had dredged up some slime from an age-old store of annoyance that she was only just keeping a lid on.

“Everyone thinks they’re the first person to think of it,” she added, in disbelief.

I had to hang my head in shame.

“Ames thinks you’re carrying a baby monkey!” I spat, desperate to thrust someone else into the spotlight.

In hindsight, I could have asked, “could that dog kill you if he loved you too much?”

But the image of sweet little Lorna coming to harm was too upsetting to bear. So I just laughed, self-consciously expecting that somewhere someone was probably thinking, “that Sian, she’ll laugh at anything.”

It’s as if, by some impossible misinterpretation of the world as we know it, that’s somehow supposed to be a bad thing. I mean, I wouldn’t laugh at a famine. Or, like, injustice.

I was in Year 12 when Mr Cliff, who we called ‘The Bulldog’ due to his incredibly sized jowls and accompanying dribble, proceeded to explain to us that his daughter, who we knew vaguely and was a few years ahead of us at school, had contracted toxic shock syndrome.

“From something as simple as a tampon!” he said, outraged, “A tampon!”

Some time later, at parent teacher night, he explained to my parents that I was so immature as to laugh when he discussed his daughter’s illness. He found this disrespectful and pathetic.

I wasn’t laughing at her illness, I wanted to say, I was laughing at the complete lack of social awareness and the sheer awkwardness of a completely irrelevant and very personal story being told by a 60 year old professional to a room full of teenagers. That’s what was funny.

At uni, I found myself in a group with someone I hadn’t known before. This person was not in the “cool” group that I seemed to be in. But aside from William wearing chopsticks in his hair, my burgeoning alcoholism and Sarah getting a drug habit, I had started to wonder what was actually so “cool” about our group at all. Regardless, it turned out Elise, in her ugh boots and stretchy ankle length skirts, was prone to laughing as much, or even more, than me. Sarah leaned to her one day, no doubt rather perturbed by our blossoming friendship and said in her fake American accent, “Elise… don’t you ever get sad?”

As much as I would hate to be the type to ask a tall person, “how’s the weather” or “do you play basketball?” I think, even worse, would be asking a happy person if they ever get sad. It seemed so spiteful, like she wanted, would rather, see Elise sad than see her tongue waggle out of her mouth as she guffaws with unrelenting pleasure and total disregard for those around her. The university tutor would wait and ask, “Are we done laughing Elise? Can we move on?”

Elise, however, while not prone to boring or predictable questions as such, has been known to say some things she may regret. At a fundraising event she learned that our lecturer was taking off home, earlier than perhaps we had expected.

“Are you tired?” Elise asked, not waiting for an answer, “I think someone is just going home for some S-E-X!”

At that moment, I’m almost certain she wished she went with, “See ya later alligator!”

Similarly, at a bar in Newtown, I heard a barman ask his co-worker, “What’s the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

She replied with, “well this will be a fun conversation for me.”

So, I got to thinking, where’s the line? Would I rather be dull or completely inappropriate? Is there any chance I can fall comfortably in between unique and traumatising? At times, when people ask me, “what’s new?” and expect me to keep conversation flowing, I feel I have been shouldered with an unfair responsibility. I feel they should think of something a little more original to ask. Other times, I relish in the opportunity to bring up anything I like and steer the conversation as I see fit.

I met a guy at a wedding who worked for a brewing company.

“How often,” I asked him, “do people ask you if you just spend all day at work getting drunk?”

His expression said it all.

I asked my friends Fliss and Jaz: ‘What’s the most common thing people say to you?’

Jaz said, being a paramedic, people often ask if she’s ever saved someone’s life. Have you ever seen a dead person? How fast are you allowed to go? Can you turn on the siren for me?

Fliss explained that people often comment on her loud laugh. They say it’s contagious or it’s the best laugh they’ve ever heard. I too, have told her this. When she laughs at my jokes, I feel famous. Heads turn. And when you think she’s done, she’s just getting started.

She explained that, working as a prison guard in a women’s jail, the most common thing people say to her is, “Fuck you you fuckin dog.”

“It’s burned into my brain,” she said, “I think this job is making me into a psycho.”

I asked if it changed her perception of people, hoping that that wasn’t on her list of commonly asked questions.

“Well,” she said, “it’s certainly changed me.”

She looked to her partner Jaz, as if asking permission to continue the story. Jaz nodded.

“This trainer at the gym,” Fliss started tentatively, “came up to me while I was cycling right? And she got right in my face and she said to me, ‘Come on! Pedal! You’re not even trying!’”

Fliss paused her story to cover her eyes for a moment, perhaps hoping we wouldn’t recognise her.

“I looked at her, right?” she went on, “because I was bloody trying! And then suddenly I said to her, “get the fuck out of my face you fuckin’ dog!’”

At this, she covered her entire face with her hands.

“She was just a young girl,” she lamented, “just doing her job.”

Fliss, the one who’s suddenly best friends with the parking inspector. Fliss, who buys milk for the guy at the dog park whose wife is sick. She, of all people, said this to another person. And then she left the gym without uttering so much as an apology.

It was awful, yes. But at least it wasn’t boring.

I laughed so hard I thought I would never be able to stop. Proving, in some cruel way, that I really will laugh at anything.