Yesterday evening, after a day of gardening in beautiful September sunshine, I embarked on my bi-monthly house clean. This I’ll have you know, is not a n everyday whiz around with a hoover and a bit of furniture polish, this is industrial cleaning that includes gouging out the intestines of my cooker, the washing of floors and the scrubbing down of kitchen units. I did employ a cleaner from an agency to do this for a while, but rather than a nubile nineteen year old Eastern European prancing around in a maids outfit and a feather duster, I got the ugliest woman in the world complete with a history of disturbing mental health issues, so being politically correct and non-sexist, I sacked her and took on the role myself.

As I mentioned, I carry out this military operation every eight weeks, I even have a little note on my Microsoft outlook calendar to remind me when the big day is coming, which I guess, means that I am only one step away from creating a spreadsheet for all the materials used including their costs and efficiency. The next step after that is an afternoon studying trains on platform 3 of Basingstoke train station complete with a flask, a Tupperware box of lemon curd sandwiches and a pair of ill fitting elasticated nylon slacks. I am fully aware I need to keep an eye on myself and not step in to the socially inadequate world of autistic oblivion.

The reason I regularly do this regular blitz of my house revolves around my mortal fear of women of any age turning up unannounced to see me living in a state of disrepair and general uncleanliness. The thought of being talked about in that manner by neighbours or my friends wives is what drives me on, as I just know that the day will come when someone like Heidi or Clare or someone will be “just passing” so it is an eventuality I have to be fully prepared for. I am also surrounded by women where I live and though none of them have stepped in my house yet, there have been some close doorstep shaves revolving around spare teaspoons of coffee and my heroic removal of a dead pigeon for Stacey, the lady across the road.

So, anyway, let us go back to the title of this post and the subject of toaster trays, those little things that gather the crumbs at the bottom. I never even knew these well disguised contraptions existed until I discovered them by mistake, I always assumed the crumbs just burnt and went out of existence. How wrong could I be? The sheer amount of crumbs that come out of a toaster is absolutely extraordinary, yesterday I emptied the two trays from my toaster in the garden and shook the toaster incessantly for several minutes, but no matter how much came out there was still more to follow and I never did clear it out properly, it isn’t humanly possible.

Famine Relief: My toaster relaxing at home this morning.

Now, I live alone with two teenage boys who stay here for roughly half the week, so I would say our toast consumption would be deemed below that of the average British family, meaning the annual toast crumb production in this country must be colossal. It is estimated that there 22 million households in the UK and though internet research seems bereft of information about how many UK toasters there are, I am going for a conservative guess of 17 million. That’s a lot of toasters and a lot of wasted breadcrumbs, I bet perennial Irish bell end and peoples poet Bob Geldof has never considered that?

So I am proposing that every two months we have a national toaster emptying day, with all the contents being packaged and sent to famine stricken nations in Central Africa. If everyone joined in I could be the next Sir Bob, with my national campaign called “Crumb of Comfort” resulting in me  living in a Chelsea mansion and the renaming of my children from George and Harry to Apple and Rhubarb. I can see myself now, sat in studios of Crumb Aid with Elton John in the background singing “Candle in Toaster” as I scream out to the nation not to go to the pub but to put their hands in their toaster trays…NOW!!!

Anyway,…I’d better go, someone is at the door… “Aaahh… Stacey…do come in… cup of tea?”