"Guys, where's my toothbrush?"

Just as I was lamenting that I hadn't posted anything up here for a full week, my housemate and Liquid Lunch front man TBR's Martin Archer came to the rescue.
Imaging the scene: me, taking advantage of the holidays to relax, reading (pondering over many quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, no less), when there came a rapping, as of someone gently tapping at my chamber door.
"Guys, where's my toothbrush?" demanded Martin Archer. "I can't find it".
All I heard was "Dude, something mundane yet strangely messed up has occurred, it'll make great blog material".
Neither Andy nor I had an adequate answer to this question, the truth is that not one of us knew where Martin Archer's toothbrush was. I quickly realised the urgency of the situation: in less than four hours Martin Archer would wish to clean his teeth, but stripped of that most crucial of teeth brushing tools, the humble toothbrush, this would be a Sisyphean task. Clearly, this was no laughing matter.
The three of us adjourned to the bathroom, the last known location of the toothbrush, to consider the situation in more detail.
It was at this moment that this drama, playing out within my very own flat, developed a disquieting twist. It was not merely Martin Archer's toothbrush which had disappeared, but also the bespoke tupperware cup used to house his trusted dental broom.
Andy hypothesised with characteristic swift thinking that the toothbrush-cup combination may have been knocked off the open window sill by a gust of wind conspiring with the curtain to buffet it on to the floor. But even accounting for the possibility that the cylindrical geometry of the cup may have allowed it to roll across the bathroom, it could not be found.
Simultaneously, the unthinkable dawned on the three of us: the ethereal hand of the wind had not knocked Martin Archer's toothbrush into the accommodating safety of our flat, but had nothing short of grabbed it and thrust it out of the barely open window. The cheek of it and on a Sunday afternoon of all times.
A brief inspection of the ground below confirmed our worst suspicions: literally meters below our window Martin Archer's toothbrush lay recumbent and wretched on a mossy paving stone. Worse still: the plastic cup was strewn across the ground in two pieces. Martin Archer refused to show emotion, but I know that on the inside he was crying. We all were. In that moment we all grew older. The best laid plans of leaving a toothbrush on the window sill had gone awry.
The next part of the story basically features Martin Archer going outside and retrieving his toothbrush and plastic cup. Andy and I thought this was hilarious, but I'm not sure I actually understand why. Instead, I'll recount a more exciting version of this tale.
In order to avoid detection during the recovery operation I suggested to Martin Archer that he dons all black clothing so as to better blend into the April evening. He selected a black leather jacket and a stout pair of shoes, appropriate for the conditions underfoot and for abseiling off the side of our building to directly retrieve his dental hygiene products. He doesn't mess about.
But halfway into the mission disaster threatens to strike as Martin Archer almost misses the toothbrush, potentially compromising the whole operation and jeopardising years of meticulous planning. "Goddamit!" I shout over the radio. He gets the message.
Based on the dual benchmarks of firstly recovering Martin Archer's toothbrush and secondly recovering and mending his toothbrush cup, the operation was a success. To celebrate, we reconvened in the kitchen for debriefing and banter.

(Readers will be relieved to know that after recovering his toothbrush, Martin Archer threw it away and did not use it).