Jonny McCambridge: Mind the gap: How a simple bedtime routine became a bathroom epic

The crevice is no more than a few inches wide, but it is deep and dark, and if something falls into that space, it is usually not found again.

I've lost plenty of dental floss and toothpaste tube caps in this way over the years. Balancing the value of the fallen object with the effort which would be required to mount a rescue and retrieval operation generally leads me to the conclusion that some things are best left undisturbed.

Occasionally I will see a small insect or spider scurry in and out of that dark space, and I am happy to leave them to it.

It is late in the evening and I am preparing for bed. I am not lithe. Whatever small amount of nimbleness may have been present in my muscles earlier in the day has long since dissipated to be replaced by a more general blacmange of exhaustion.

My physical fatigue is matched by some sort of late-night mental collapse. I am not alert. Weariness is seeping out of me like lines of slurry from a leaky tanker.

I want to go to bed.

In truth I have wanted my bed from the middle of the afternoon. It is only professional and familial responsibilities and some sort of vague awareness of the concept of social etiquette that prevents me retiring for the day at a quarter past three.

I have long considered it one of the cruellest conundrums that I spend most of the daylight hours yearning for sleep, but when I do make it to bed it can be frustratingly elusive and I am often awake for hours in the deepest part of the night.

However, I am exceptionally tired now and the hope is there that this is the evening when I will enjoy undisturbed rest. I only have to brush my teeth and the day's work is done.

There is a minor inconvenience. There is just a small amount of toothpaste left in the tube and it is difficult to extract.

I chide myself gently for not buying a replacement tube while I set my toothbrush on the edge of the sink and use both thumbs to squeeze the dentifrice in the general direction of the bristles.

As a tiny amount of the paste tortuously begins to emerge from the tube, I quickly move it towards the brush. At my best, I would never claim to have the dexterity of a surgeon in my hands.

At my worst, I'm a clumsy oaf. All I succeed in doing is knocking the brush with the end of the toothpaste tube.

Time appears to slow down. The brush teeters on the edge of the sink. I make a desperate attempt to grab it, but flail at the air as the plastic brush disappears into the dark crevice.

I stare at the spot. Ridiculously, one of my first thoughts is the scene from the original Superman movie where the hero was so crestfallen over the death of Lois Lane that he flew around the Earth at speed to make it move in the reverse direction in order to turn back time. That is not an option here.

When I am agitated I tend to talk to myself as if I was another person. A very stupid person. I walk in circles in the bathroom, growling.

"Look what you've done....you're such an idiot....what are you going to do now? You really are a plonker."

I stare some more at the dark gap. It does not improve my situation.

My first problem is that it is such a long way down. It is all relative. I have been the same height for several decades, but my toes seem further away and harder to reach than ever before. I begin to crouch.

“Ooooohhhhhhh! Aaaawwwwh!”

My son is downstairs. He hears the commotion and is concerned I have come to harm.

“Are you ok daddy?” he calls up.

'It's fine son,' I respond through gritted teeth. “Daddy is just bending down.”

Now, I am kneeling and examining the dark gap. Hesitantly, I put my face as close as I dare. I am a little afraid that something is alive in there, like a spider, or a cockroach, or a scorpion.

I can see nothing. I move closer and lower. Now, my face is touching the cold, tiled floor. I turn on the light on my mobile and place it next to the gap. I can see the outlines of some unidentifiable shapes.

I withdraw slightly. I feel that something has attached itself to my cheek, but don't want to know what it is. I am mumbling again.

“This is just great...a new low...you loser.”

I know what needs to be done. I study the width of the thin gap. Next, I consider the width of my fat arm. It doesn't seem to add up. I have a vision of getting the limb trapped in the gap and being stuck this way until someone finds me desperate and with a long beard weeks later.

I think about another movie I once watched in which the central character somehow got his arm trapped under a giant rock in a cave and had to cut off his own limb to escape.

I conclude that I am not helping myself.

I begin to insert my arm into the narrow gap. It is cold and damp. My fingers scan the unexplored territory. Mercifully, a long, thin object is quickly discovered.

I scramble back to my feet and hold the toothbrush aloft in triumph, as if it were Excalibur pulled from the stone.

It is only when I place the brush down that I notice that the bristles are covered in fluff and dust. I see there is another, slightly larger, shape in there. I decide it is better not to explore.

I will use my wife's toothbrush tonight.