Andy Richardson: Crumbs! What a way to earn a crust

Rows and rows of white sliced loaves, muffins, pocket toasters and all manner of other bread products were piled high against the wall. Except they weren't being sold cheaply and they weren't in the aisles of the nation's biggest supermarket. They were 13 paces from my desk, right here, on Planet Weekend.

Men and women who ought to have been considering the merits of a perfectly placed semi-colon were instead trying to divine meaning from the unexpected Bread Mountain which had intruded into their office.

On top of Bread Mountain sat a casually-dressed sub editor called Paul. He'd taken it upon himself to solve the mystery like our very own Diggory Compton, but without the glasses. Sleuth-like, he retraced the bread's passage from the gates of Warburton's Wednesbury bakery to smart, modern offices in Telford.

"What happened, Paul?" his disciples asked, as he scratched the goatee on his chin. "What wisdom can we divine from Bread Mountain."

Paul looked down from his lofty perch, spitting out the crumbs from a cinnamon and raisin muffin. His disciplines waited for an explanation. "Is it a sign, Paul, is it a sign?" He scratched his chin and the anticipation built. "Erm," he said, as his disciples readied themselves for his proclamation. "I aye gorra clue. But theeze muffins am bostin'."

Thanks Paul. Get back to your desk and do something more useful.

BreadGate was having profound consequences on office productivity. Not only were writers, sub-editors and news editors trying to work out where the bread had come from; they were also wondering whether they might tuck in, just like Paul.

The office receptionist offered illumination. "It's a delivery for a person who's on a day off," she said, helpfully. But why? Why? Why?

Had that person heard about the Queen's planned 90th birthday party for 10,000 people and decided to throw her own? Had she been learning Jesus-Magic and finding a way of multiplying bread? Had she just got a really, really bad attack of the munchies and decided to satisfy her cravings by ordering a year's supply of bloomers?

Who knew?

The person that the bread had been delivered to was miles away, oblivious to it all.

"Has the deliveryman dropped off at the wrong address?" asked someone intelligent.

As we looked at the two foot stack of fresh baked starch, it seemed a reasonable explanation.

Paul made a proclamation. "We should share the bread," he said, munching his way through his fourth muffin. He was first in the queue and speedily secreted three loaves beneath his desk. Funny that. His colleagues lined up after him. "Are you sure about this, Diggory?" they asked.

Paul brokered no dissent. "Come eat, come eat," he said, waving his arms around like a windmill, for reasons we couldn't understand.

Black Friday came to town as an unseemly scramble for crumpets broke out. One award-winning member of the team smiled darkly as he stuffed loaves into his arms. "I'll sell mine on," he said. He was only half-joking.

Even the Deputy Editor took a Warburtons toastie loaf. No matter how high you rise on the corporate ladder, there are still hungry mouths to feed.

Within minutes, a volume of bread that would have fed a small town had been distributed to the vultures of the newsroom. Conversation broke out in the normally-quiet office. "What are you having for supper tonight?"

"Toast?"

"That's nice. Are you having a dessert?

"Toast. With jam."

"Cool."

Summer pudding recipes pinged back and forth across the internet airwaves. And more than one of us scratched our heads, wondering what we'd do if the delivery man returned and told us that, yes, actually, it was a mistake to deliver a week's worth of bread to a newspaper office.

Some days later, as colleagues waddled into work, all looking 2kg heavier and displaying the tell-tale, puffy-cheeked signs of bread-binge-gluttony, an explanation emerged.

The person to whom the bread had been delivered had returned to her desk. She looked remarkably svelte and slim, as though she'd not binged on bread like everyone else. It transpired she'd mentioned Warburtons in a story and, unsolicited, they'd decided to empty their bakery for her. She'd been oblivious to their generosity, or the fact that the W-bomb would lead to deliveries on a military scale.

It got me thinking, however. If the simple use of the word 'Warburtons' can lead to such largesse, what else might happen with a word on the right page. What might, for instance, happen if you write: 'Ferrari', or 'Jaguar', or 'free holiday on Necker Island'?

What might happen if you write 'Michelin Dinner at Simpsons', 'new suit from Vivienne Westwood' or 'Complete Works of The Beatles from EMI'?

Deliveries to the usual address. . .