On the other side of the office, a giant gingerbread sculpture is being erected. Some company has invented a new festive hand soap, and in order to ‘celebrate the launch’, they have sent Panache a gingerbread Twelve Days of Christmas. It’s the end of November, so that partridge is going to be very stale by the twenty-fifth.

Would anyone notice if I sneaked over and stole a Lord a-Leaping?

A soap and moisturiser set has been dumped on everyone’s desks, regardless of status and hierarchy. The press release tells me it retails at £49.95. Do I a) Sell it, b) Give it to my mum for Christmas or c) Use it for shower gel?

I will never, ever become blasé about free stuff. In fact, all of my stuff is free stuff. Everywhere I look, I see piles of books, chocolate, perfume, T-shirts, stickers, phone covers. The Panache staffers open their post, sigh with irritation about the fact that another publicist has dared to send them yet more clutter, shoving the treasure to the side of their desks. I am constitutionally unable to say no to anything that I don’t have to pay for—even though sex bloggers get sent some seedy packages. Blow-up dolls. Penis shaped soap (which gave me a rash under my armpits). Edible underwear.

Edible underwear!

I might have some on me. I bumped into the postman on my way home from work last week and shoved my weird packages into the bottom of my bag for safekeeping. I don’t think I ever took them out.

In desperation, I look over at the gingerbread. There is so much gingerbread. It’s still under construction, and it’s already covering every conceivable surface. It smells like treacle. Like Christmas. I’m desperate for it.

But there are unspoken rules in the Panache office. Maybe, in an hour or two, one of the senior Sales girls will say ‘Oooh, I’m so naughty!’ and start nibbling on a turtle dove feather, or half a golden ring. Over the course of the afternoon, ‘the boys’ from various other bits of the building will be invited to come in and demolish it.

But the work experience is the lowest of the low. If I were to eat my fill of gingerbread right now—even though there’s enough here to feed an orphanage—no one would say anything. But I’d never, ever be asked back. And I’d be talked about. ‘Do you remember the weird intern who just helped herself to a load of biscuits?’ Eventually I’d pass into legend, they’d say I’d devoured an entire traybake, or a vast Victoria sponge, fistfuls at a time. It would be less embarrassing if I fainted at my desk.

So, after checking that no one is looking, I reach under my desk, and rummage in my bag for a handful of edible panty.