According to the official website of Fema - that's America's Federal Emergency Management Agency - there is a strict procedure to follow during an earthquake in Los Angeles. “DROP to the ground,” say the instructions (these are Fema's caps, not mine). “Take COVER by getting under a sturdy table; and HOLD ON until the shaking stops.”

That's right: when tectonic plates collide, the official advice from the Land of the Free and the Home of the Brave is to cower under your desk.

Which suits me just fine. But there's a problem: after the 5.4-magnitude trembler that struck this city a fortnight ago, I've realised that it's terrible advice. After all, there have been approximately 140,000 earthquakes in Southern California since the last one that did any significant damage (this being the Northridge rumble of '94, which killed 72). If you had cowered under your desk during every single one of them, you would almost certainly have been sent away by now to live in a rubber-walled cell with a man who wears his underpants on his head and thinks he's a toaster.

This leads me to a surprising and rather unsettling conclusion: that the greatest risk from an earthquake in LA isn't death, it's looking like a plonker in front of your colleagues (or in the case of Judith Sheindlin, who was unfortunate enough to be recording an episode of her TV show Judge Judy when the most recent earthquake struck and ran off set, looking like a plonker in front of 80 million YouTube users).

Clearly, what Fema failed to take into consideration when formulating its earthquake survival guidelines is that most of us experience earthquakes in one of the most treacherous environments known to humankind: the workplace. And if you think that overindulging at the office Christmas party is embarrassing, imagine the biting mortification that could result from overreacting to non-fatal seismic activity.

Take my friend Tom (not his real name). On the morning of July 29 he was sitting at a large conference table in the financial district, surrounded by important people with important-sounding acronyms instead of job titles. When, all of a sudden, the very fabric of the Universe seemed to be coming apart at the seams, he panicked.

Spectacularly. Tom is still unable to give a full and accurate account of his behaviour, but from what I can gather, he sprang out of his chair, flapped his arms around a great deal, shouted a variety of sexual obscenities, then proceeded to grab the woman sitting next to him and pull her violently under the nearest door frame (Fema says that this is the next best thing to a desk).

The jeers from his colleagues almost drowned out what was left of the tectonic rumbling, and his boss (who later accused him of sexism) didn't speak to him for days. “It was Darwinist instinct,” Tom protested. “People like me will ultimately ensure the survival of the species.” True enough - but the survival of Tom's career is of more immediate concern.

That's not to say that inaction is always the best policy, as my wife can confirm. She was halfway through a job interview on the fourth floor of a swanky Beverly Hills high-rise when she noticed that the view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows was swaying from side to side. Next, she heard a terrible crunching noise, followed by screams from the secretaries nextdoor. At this point she had two options: 1) leap off the sofa and adopt the Fema-approved below-desk cowering position; or 2) do nothing and risk having floors 5-to-11 land on her head. She chose the latter (she really wanted the job).

“Interesting,” said her interviewer, when the shaking finally came to an end. “Now we know how you act in a crisis.” Which could be taken to mean: 1) you remained calm, well done; or 2) you did nothing, therefore you're fired before you start. At least the earthquake gave her an opportunity for a one-liner as the interview came to an end. “Did the Earth move for you?” she asked.

Of course, all these workplace conundrums could be solved if Fema would replace its overly cautious earthquake-survival procedure with something more useful, such as a guide to earthquake etiquette. After all, most of us know which fork to use for the fish course, and that we should keep our mouths shut while chewing, and that if we fail to observe these rules we risk embarrassing ourselves. But what if the choice is between the risk of embarrassing ourselves or, say, being impaled by a falling chandelier?

The tenets of earthquake etiquette could even be applied to other perils - such as the fuselage blowing up in your Qantas 747, the Dow Jones crashing by 20 per cent, or receiving an anthrax-tainted letter - and could eventually form the basis for an entirely new field of “crisis etiquette”.

Not that these guidelines would tell us anything we don't already know. After all, it has been proven many times that people generally fear social awkwardness more than they fear death (the comedian Jerry Seinfeld maintains that people are so terrified of public speaking that most guests at a funeral would rather be in the casket than giving the eulogy).

Don't get me wrong: I don't think that putting manners over personal safety is necessarily a bad thing. The purpose of etiquette isn't just to prove your membership of a particular socio-economic group; it's to show consideration for others. And nothing shows more consideration for others than resisting the temptation to wail “OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”. That's because most people - myself included - prefer to live in wilful ingorance of the horrors that await, even if those horrors are only a few more tectonic rumbles away.

Besides, let's face it: when the Big One does eventually strike Los Angeles, even a desk made of kryptonite won't be much use. So why not relax, smile and pretend that the worst will never happen?

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