Steve thinks Martin is an idiot. Martin spent money on an unwise purchase now he is struggling to pay his bills. While he scrambles around in his lunch hour trying to sort his life out, we stand in Paul's office and discuss his predicament. "I can't understand how any man could do that." Steve says "It's just the sort of thing a Blonde would do."

If I hadn't heard my brother describe his brunette girlfriend as his "Blonde" I would never know it was slang for "Woman". I groan inwardly. Of all the people in the room I am the least likely to have done such a dumb thing, but that is not important to Steve. He looks at me expectantly. I freeze.  I have several options. I could pretend to laugh, stare at him blankly or fake stupidity. He glances at Paul, than back at me.

"She's not very happy about that!" He repeats himself "I said - that's just the sort of thing a Blonde would do. No need to get offended. It's just a joke."

I've always been a fan of Columbo. 

"Oh - I'm not offended", I say, as innocently as I can "But I'm not blonde..."

Steve throws back his head and roars. His short sharp laugh is like a klaxon. I wince.

"She doesn't get it does she?"

Paul laughs heartily in response. Surely it isn't that funny.

"Paul's blonde." I point out the obvious. "Is that something he would do?"

The silence is thick. They stare at me. I blink back. I have spoiled the joke. I ease myself slowly through the awkwardness and slink out the door. I return to my desk as quickly as I can. Am I normal? Am I well? Is there some sense-of-humour gene I lack?

I sit down and let my fingers settle on the familiar keyboard. Apparently us Brits excel at the art of desk-skiving. I am a pioneer. I open several important-looking files and click, scroll and occasionally type my way around the screen. I am doing absolutely nothing, but only a trained eye would know. I let my mind wander.

My memory takes me back to my student days. To a working class social club in Edinburgh. A place that smelled of stale beer, pipe smoke and old wood. I worked nights behind the kiosk taking the money for skittles games and snooker tables. I did my homework to pass the tedious hours. People left me alone unless they needed change or the machines got stuck. The women I attended were brusque and business-like. But the men had other intentions. When they spoke they all began with the same word.

"Smile!"

At first I would only smile if I liked the person and if I felt like smiling. But I quickly learned that smiling for some people and not for others caused great resentment. The angry retort from the rejected would always be the same.

"Cheer up. It's just a joke!"

But I never got the joke. So I became a performer. No matter how low I felt I would not show it. I was the amazing smiling monkey. I grinned on cue. It seemed to make them happy. My smile was important, inexplicably linked to their self-esteem. So I faked it.

Later on I worked behind the bar. I had my favourites. Jimmy had been all around the world. He was well-read in literature, philosophy and science. Life had disappointed him and robbed him of his ambitions. Now, in his middle age, he propped up the bar and drank too much. But he still had his stories. I used to lean against the beer pumps and hang on his every word. He made me laugh so hard I often had to plead with him to stop talking so I could catch my breath.

But other people were not so entertaining. Again, I found myself forced to perform lest they be angry. They didn´t understand why if I laughed for Jimmy why not for them? My approval seemed to be important to them. I supposed it was part of my job to make them happy. So I faked it.

When I left University and embarked on my first career I came face to face with Ambition, a severe contrast from the carefree days of studentdom. I learned that people could be ruthless. I saw them sabotage each other, and me, and use ¨humour¨ to cover their tracks. And still I found myself the target of their wrath if I did not laugh.

I could no longer fake it under these circumstances. I'd had enough. Why is it so offensive not to find someone funny? What if I was miserable? What right did someone have to be angry at that? I started to believe that it was not my problem. I made some enemies.

It is not just men. A few weeks ago I found myself in the coffee room surrounded by women. They were discussing their boyfriends and husbands. The hilarity I cannot describe or explain. I could not join in. My philosophy being 'look before you sit', I have no strong feelings about where the toilet seat is left.  I don't have to nag my boyfriend to do the housework. We don´t argue over the TV. I adore his mother. Clearly we are bizarre people.

One girl relayed how little her husband knew of her intellect.

"He doesn't even know I read!"

A chorus of shrieking  cackles met her confession. They may as well have scraped their fingernails down the blackboard. I wanted to escape. They noticed me. Not laughing. I forced a smile out. It was too little, too late. I was not one of them and they knew it then. The atmosphere went cold and never thawed.

Maybe I am completely missing the point. Maybe a joke doesn´t need to be funny. Maybe the point is to pretend, to bond. I wish someone would tell me. If I knew everyone else was faking it might be easier to fake it myself.

I realise all this rumination is getting me nowhere and turn back to my work. There is a knock at the office door. It is Steve.

"Hey Signa," I turn round "Did you hear the one about the female referee...."

I fix a grin on my face and raise my eyebrows while he delivers the punchline. I must look like Batman's Joker. "Ha ha.." I try my best to squeeze out some mirth. "..that's a good one, Steve"

He leaves, apparently satisfied and I turn back to my desk. It takes several seconds for my muscles to relax and the grin to fade. I let my shoulders droop. My head meets the desk with a thump and I sob. I don´t get it.