I rearranged another woman’s desk once. I did it, and I’m not proud. Let me tell you the story.

Following graduation, I temped in a postgraduate admissions office. My two colleagues, Moira and Margaret, existed in constant, absolute disarray. I quietly gaped at the inefficiency with which they dispatched information to applicants from all over the world. Chinese students mostly, but also Italian, American, Dutch: any number of nationalities experienced the astonishing whirlwind of uncertainty that characterised the department. Offers of places were issued, recalled, amended and mislaid in the same day. Telephone calls prompted dread, since they were almost always from hopeful young applicants, who would relay their confusion in anger, bemusement or, worst of all, distress.

I could not stand it for long. I built a database. A simple one, just an Access table where we could log, number and track applications. I was hailed a hero. I had taken chaos and from it wrought order.

So I began looking around for other improvements I could make. I alphabetised files. I kept a note of phone calls. I ran reports from my legendary database. Gradually, the chaos began to ease. The phone rang more infrequently and less disastrously.

And that’s when I got carried away. By this point, I had learned that while Margaret was not the most organised of people, the real source of office pandemonium was Moira. She was a woman around whom chaos clustered, attracted as if by a magnetic force. When I picture her, I see papers literally gusting around her, a pained expression on her face as she scrabbled through the dusty sheaves that weighed down her workspace. Everything about that dishevelled office corner upset me. There was no need for Moira’s working life to be so difficult. A day or two spent implementing systems and having a clear-out would fix the whole damn problem.

You can see where I’m going, can’t you? Reader, I reorganised her. I came in one day to find that Moira was absent and, since I am making a mea culpa, I may as well reveal that she wasn’t just off with a sniffle. Shamefully, I took the opportunity to redesign her work area when she was in hospital being treated for something quite serious.

I casually asked Margaret whether she thought Moira would mind if I tidied up a bit. Of course she said no, so I started. First, I chucked out a few obviously outdated papers and alphabetised the remainder. I moved things around to create a bit more space. I gave the desk a wipe, and sat back.

But the urge to organise had taken hold of me, and I could not stop. I crawled underneath the desk, where a tower of papers skulked. They had never been used the whole time I’d been there, and they were messy. So I threw them all out. I just heaved them into the bucket, a surge of excitement gripping me.

Now I was unstoppable. I got rid of all the files on the desk, convinced that I’d already entered their contents onto my fabulous database. I binned notes, post-its, scribbled scraps from writing pads. I cleaned the computer, wiped the keyboard, I probably even changed the chair height. I didn’t stop for lunch, I just sorted and catalogued and made things nice the whole day.

Occasionally, I tossed an airy, ”She won’t mind, will she?” over my shoulder to Margaret. The poor woman could only murmur, ”No, I’m sure it will be a great help.”

When I had finished, I sat back with a smile, and then a faltering doubt. I looked at the gleaming surfaces and neat systems, and I didn’t see Moira. I saw me. And I realised that I had done a terrible thing.

I couldn’t put it right: the papers were gone, the bins had been emptied, and I couldn’t have recreated Moira’s outrageous disarray if I’d had weeks in which to do so. I had to go home, avoiding Margaret’s eyes, and face Moira the next day.

She took it well. Only occasionally would she vent her frustration at being unable to find things that it turned out she did need after all. Mostly, she kept up the pretence that I’d done her a favour, which was a kindness beyond anything I deserved. Now that I have a permanent job and a desk of my own, if a temp presumed to reorganise it for me, I would hit the roof. I can only admire Moira for her tolerance.

I learned that you cannot make people be the way you want them. You have to accept them as they are. And above all, you must respect people’s workspaces, even the ones that make you want to scream. I wish I’d learned this before I met Moira. I bet she does, too.