We're well trained in doing what we're told these days. Keep to the left, don't park here, please take a free leaflet, don't hang up I'm not trying to sell you anything, walk don't run, no standing in the aisle. Most of it, of course, is for our own good; it would be chaos if, for example, we all started running with scissors or not bothering to tie our shoelaces in the morning.

Life seems one long advisory notice sometimes, and often it's all we can do to break the tyranny of those-who-must-be-obeyed by small but satisfying acts of rebellion, like nipping into B&Q through the EXIT door when someone's coming out, or taking a bottle of milk with a better use-by date from the back of the chiller cabinet at the Co-op.

Which is why my heart was much gladdened by the recent activities of one lady in Ikea at the vast Birstall retail nightmare (surely, those of us who have led depraved lives will, when we finally succumb to the big mystery of death, find ourselves forever circling the byroads of the Junction 27 Retail Park looking for a parking space that doesn't exist while St Peter laughs at us from atop the roof of the Toys R Us store).

So there I was in Ikea. On a Bank Holiday Monday.

I know, I know. A simple schoolboy error. I deserve everything I get. It was, as you might have guessed, a little busy. We were all trolley-to-backside with each other, while those with the natty yellow bags skipped in between, grabbing bags of tea-lights as if it had been announced that coal had run out. Tempers were fraying, particularly as around every corner there was someone with a full-load who was determined to walk against the flow of traffic because they'd forgotten to pick up a screw-in lightbulb or a bracket for their Venetian blind or a canvas print of a big green leaf.

All of a sudden, the Tannoy crackled into life. I didn't take a shorthand note of what was actually said, but it began pretty much like this: "Hello?

Hello. Look, if anyone finds a purse, can they hand it in to the. . . to one of the people in the yellow jerseys."

This, it seemed, was not one of the normal announcements. The owner of the disembodied voice was, I would hazard a guess, a lady of mature years.

"Please, please, please, if you find this purse can you hand it in. To one of the people in yellow. Or at the till. I did ask if they'd let me make an announcement but they said they only do that for people who've parked their cars illegally. . ."

By now it was becoming apparent that there was something highly unusual afoot here. People began to slow down and give each other sidelong glances.

". . . so I found one of these microphones, " continued the voice. "And guess what? I'm not letting go of it until I'vesaidwhatIwanttosay.Idon't know where I left the purse but it might have been in the lighting department. It's black, with a small gold clasp. . ."

And so on. But by now a strange thing had happened. Those frayed tempers had suddenly dissipated and the stressed-out shoppers were actually smiling at each other, laughing in one or two cases, and even exchanging pleasantries with strangers. The atmosphere was so relaxed that I only had to punch one person to get the last set of chocolate brown curtains on display.

This had been a prime example of the little person refusing to be held back by petty bureaucracy.

I'm not sure if the lady ever got her purse back, but I sincerely hope she did. I also suggest that Ikea should give her a job to make announcements at every busy period, because she's the best thing I've ever experienced in that store since they unveiled the Billy bookcase in antique pine.