Thanks to a bout of dedicated homecraft during the festive holidays, the showpiece interiors of Stoater Hollow are edging ever nearer completion. Eggshell paint the colour of dried blood has been smeared throughout the hallway. A dining table has been installed. Six chairs have fallen off the back of a lorry and been spirited indoors to take their place around the aforementioned table. And my dearly beloved has developed an exceptional talent for whipping up a magical atmosphere using 10 cheap white candles, a few twigs and some chopped-up pomegranates culled from the bruised fruit bin at our local Asian superstore.

Normal thirtysomething-year-old householders, of course, dispel all their house-warming and seasonal social obligations by simply throwing one big bash. This option, however, is not open to us - as the effect of putting all our friends and relatives together in a controlled space would detonate a new nuclear threat. They could not possibly sit and break bread together; all this motley bunch would break would be each other's heads.

Our diplomatic solution has been a policy of strict segregation, which has meant having our dearest friends and closest family members round two-by-two practically every bloody night since Christmas - except during the relatively brief period when our central heating boiler was not working. Oh, even the stormiest cloud can sometimes have a silver lining!

Those all too few days apart, we have been placed in a state of perpetual dinner party hell. Our lives have been transformed into a frenzy of glass polishing, table laying, candle lighting, plate warming, bread baking, salmon filleting, cream whipping, coffee grinding, wine opening and port passing.

While I have become Stoater Hollow's executive chef, my poor beloved has been reduced to the level of servile skivvy.

''More wine here,'' our dear guests shout - so impressed by our professionalism that they readily mistake us in the heat of a thirsty moment for the lowliest of waiting staff. If only they proffered tips which extended beyond handy hints on how to get the pomegranate seed stains out of white tablelinen.

Last Sunday, we entertained our dear friend Sandra, who was understandably glad to get the hell out of Lanarkshire for one whole evening. I should imagine that living in the wilds of bandit country is bad enough at the best of times. However, poor Sandra has suffered more than anyone's fair share of vicissitudes since attempting to stage a lavish festive breakfast on Boxing Day in her new baroque-style orangery.

This fine structure of seasoned timbers and high-quality glazing was latched on to the end of Sandra's crumbling farm cottage by her squeeze, Johnny, as a Christmas gift. But as she passed Johnny a plate of freshly toasted muffins, topped with lightly poached eggs and a Hollandaise sauce which could have brought tears of envy to Delia Smith's eyes, the entire structure began to shudder. Windows cracked, and the exterior doors flew off their hinges. Fears mounted for the two potted twigs which will possibly not be yielding a harvest of Seville's finest fruits in time for the forthcoming marmalade-making season.

Sandra was forced to remove her high-heeled shoes and adopt the brace position in preparation for an emergency

take-off. Johnny, however, saved the day . . . and most of the new orangery. For, armed with his hammer and a packet of

10-inch nails, he swept the festive tablewares aside and bravely nailed the tabletop across the gaping doorway.

As she retreated to the most secure wing of her bijou property, she happened to notice the entire stock of animal feedstuffs blowing from the byre into the head of the twister. ''Look, Johnny'', she shouted. ''There goes all our hay . . . oh, and the bloody hay shed, too!''

Thereafter, she had nothing with which to feed the livestock, nowhere for the livestock to shelter . . . and no electricity for several days. And, as temperatures hogged the freezing

mark, she was forced to huddle around the kitchen stove with Ruth (her one remaining chickens), Mr McGilberry (the fat pony), two cats, a whippet, the goat . . . and Johnny. Somehow, the romance of country living must have seemed a little less captivating than ever before. As this fireside huddle reached day three of their captivity in electrical shutdown, an empathetic soul on ScottishPower's emergency hotline got to the root of the problem. ''It's all very well,'' she admonished, ''for you people living out in these farms during the summer. But it's a whole different ball game in the winter.'' When you are shivering, starving and bloody miserable, it's nice to hear an insinuation that your plight is your own doing. Undeterred, Johnny and Sandra continued to discuss their situation with operatives various who assured them they had taken down the fullest possible details. Or the vaguest

approximation of Johnny's helpful explanation that Sandra's no-power problem stemmed from a burned-out fuse on the main supply at the nearest electricity pole. For, at 11 that evening, a domestic electrician arrived, armed with a 13-amp fuse.

By day four-and-a-half, a management personage was on the blower thanking Sandra and Johnny for their kindly patience. Johnny, however, rigorously assured this executive kindness and patience had absolutely nothing to do with it. The management solution was to dispatch an emergency generator without further delay. Johnny pointed out it might be a deal more satisfactory to leave the emergency generator precisely wherever it was and, instead, dispatch the proper fuse unit. On day four-and-seven-eighths, power was restored.

But ravaged by flu-like lurgy - possibly a cross between foot 'n' mouth and frostbite - Johnny was not well enough

to join our Sunday night soiree. Sandra, however, left

us a fabulous tip: never con-fuse the electricity helpline

with detailed information. In her experience, knowledge

isn't power.