Germs. You can’t get away from the blighters. If it’s not the teeming populations of camplylobacter that infest the cavities of supermarketchicken, it’s the E coli, salmonella and worse that disport themselves on our towels and dishcloths.

Against these regiments of invisible enemies we deploy a vast arsenal of weapons-grade cleaning products. But while we’re spraying our surfaces with bleach and washing our dishes in Eucalyptus detergent, a shaming 60-odd per cent of us neglect to wash our hands after we’ve visited the loo, according to a Rentokil survey.

While confirming my conviction that you’re better off eating dinner at home, where at least the bugs are mostly familiar, this news has made me reflect on my own handwashing habits which are, I realise, completely perverse.

At home in London, I carry on like Lady Macbeth, washing my hands dozens of times a day. But at weekends, in the stableyard, I find myself cheerfully eating a sandwich from an unwashed hand that moments ago was feeding a horse a mint.

I’ve no idea whether it is my scrupulous townie cleanliness or my robust rural exposure to pathogens that means I’m almost never ill. But either way I view with misgiving Rentokil’s proposed solution to the handwashing recidivists. Stewart Power, its marketing director, predicts that one day every washroom will have a monitoring system “to give us a nudge to wash our hands”.

It’s bad enough being nagged by an electronic voice about an unexplained item in the bagging area. Just imagine the irritation of being slut-shamed by a disembodied nanny in the loo door.