It has not been a good week on the domestic appliance front. During Monday evening, my dearly beloved decided to press the vacuum cleaner into service while I attempted to vegetate in front of the telly. I assumed that some sort of point was being made about my shortcomings in homecraft. But after 15 minutes of torturous din (which drowned out what may well have been a crucial Corrie plot development), there was a small grunt, followed by a bit of a whimper . . . then an eerie silence.

Naturally, I was accused of unplugging this instrument of sonic torture - until a strange burning smell indicated that it had simply blown up. Unaccustomed as the poor machine had been to finding itself switched on, it clearly had not coped with those intakes of dust wooshing up the front and electrical current pulsating up its rear end.

The fact that this was actually the third vacuum cleaner to have perished at Stoater Hollow might suggest an unparalleled level of house-pride. The truth, however, is that the vacuum cleaner lies dormant in the hall cupboard until our carpets grow furballs the size of a cat. At this point, my beloved generally realises that such furballs could actually reach the size of a sofa- and I'd continue to ignore them. The temper-driven cleaning offensive which then ensues takes no prisoners. Little wonder that the hard pressed artillery simply surrenders.

Like all over-achieving thirtysomethings, we have the very last word in sound systems, the best video recorder that funny-money can buy, and a television at every turn. But our white goods have

generally come second-hand from the Stoater science park - a back bedroom at the family seat where Ma Stoater has been stockpiling appliances ever since she first developed a chronic dependency problem in the early 70s.

All the Christmas celebrations of my childhood years were overshadowed by her gritty determination to be at Curry's by 9am on Boxing Day if there was to be as much as a fiver off the spindryers or hostess trolleys. Invariably such sale-priced temptations as mains-powered apple corers and yoghurt makers would prove too great for the old dear to resist. And, like an evangelist, she'd preach to her inner circle of friends about the miraculous labour-saving properties of each marvellous new gadget . . . before consigning same to the science park. Unused.

The smallest modification to any of the more commonplace domestic appliances was always enough to justify an immediate replacement. Which explains why our new vacuum cleaner would only be a brief telephone call away. Or so I thought. Unfortunately, however, there's been a bit of a run on her stocks lately. So I was told that I'd actually have to buy one.

As this dreadful news set in, my dearly beloved asked for three other crimes against the National Grid to be taken into consideration. Had I noticed a slight problem with the hot water system? Apparently this had been due to a faulty timeclock. But, having earlier assumed for no logical reason that the fault lay with the electricity meter, my beloved had carried out an exploratory operation.

This had yielded nothing- except the promise from the ScottishPower ranger (who subsequently had to be summoned on an emergency call-out) that we would be reported to the appropriate authorities for illegal

meter tampering.

This sounded pretty serious. But the next confession was worse: murder by meat cleaver. My beloved, it emerged under cross-examination, had added one such instrument to a 60 degree white wash. During the prolonged high-speed spin cycle, our trusty Hotpoint had suffered a massive haemorrhage - and died.

''In exactly what circumstances,'' I asked, ''could you possibly have been so stupid as to put a meat cleaver in a washing machine?''

''Well the cleaver must simply have got caught up in all the towels which I had been using to mop up the flood.''

''What flood?''

''From the fridge - which incidentally is also dead. An iceberg had formed over the chill section, and I had been using the cleaver to defrost it. Good thing I'd switched it off at the mains before I sliced through all the internal wiring. Maybe I should also mention that the woman downstairs wants to know what you're going to do about her kitchen ceiling.''

''So let me get this straight.'' I was struggling to remain calm. ''We need a new vacuum cleaner, a washing machine and a fridge. Mrs McClumphy's ceiling has collapsed. And Scottish Power think we're meter-tamperers . . .''

An animated discussion of these facts ensued, culminating in my beloved's recommendation that I really should be doing all the washing, cleaning and refrigeration work personally if I felt so strongly about abuse of appliances.

I was also rather unkindly reminded of the celebrated occasion when I'd suddenly stirred from my customary mid-evening torpor to speculate about the wierd whirring noise which was emanating from our homestead's

nether regions.

''That's only the washing machine,'' explained my beloved.

''Good God,'' I exclaimed. ''We've lived here for two years and I've never ever heard it before.''

''Exactly!'' came the slowly measured response.

I now realise that if I want to see a clean shirt in my cupboard ever again (or traverse the breadth of the living room without being smothered by a yeti-sized furball) I have to drag my beloved down to the ScottishPower showroom this weekend, offering the pick of their splendid appliances. Another fine example of chequebook diplomacy. And elastic plastic.