MY house has been transformed from a cosy, snug, two bedroomed terrace into an appliance graveyard almost overnight.

It's a nightmare. I daren't look at anything with a plug for fear it will blow up.

I feel cheated too because my grandma once said that things only start to go when you've been married for 20 years.

Now, OK, she may have been surreptitiously talking about love, life and any number of mental faculties where she and my grandad are concerned and not my washing machine et al, but, honestly, I can't help thinking I've been seriously gipped.

For one I'm not flippin' married, obviously, and two, I've only lived there just over two years.

So by my reckoning I've got another 18 years to eek out of that now defunct Hotpoint 1000 deluxe -- and that's only after I've secured a husband to carry out some initial, minor repairs.

What a gip. Humph.

Thing is I wouldn't -- and didn't -- actually mind when the washer packed up because I only paid 50 quid for it two years ago and my dad had already flooded it with WD40 about 50 times.

Plus I rived the door off single handedly in the first week I moved in, fixed it myself in a smug, Carol Smillie kind of way and then found it leaked every time the cycle hit spin.

But what bugs me is when practically new things blow up, spark out or just give up the ghost when they should have plenty of life left.

And especially when they're only about two nano-seconds out of warranty. That's the real kick in the teeth.

First my 'phone went after about a year and two days, then my microwave started shedding its rubberised coating from the inside one second and 12 months to the day after I whacked it in the trolley on a whim and then, hey presto, whoop de doo, the computer packs up -- though that was only borrowed I must admit.

And, actually, if I'm being honest, it was more a case of the computer not turning on in the first place.

You see that's another thing with me and electrical goods.

I only have to look at a button and it doesn't work. It's like, switch, bang! There goes another TV. Flick, snap! The cooker's blown up.

And when those two particular items leave me, I just lose all hope.

Even my mobile 'phone has developed a temperamental streak -- but then I did drop it in a bowl of floating candles, as someone quite rightly pointed out yesterday.

I don't know. When I look around all I'm left with is a portable television that actually belongs to my sister-in-law and doesn't switch off most days, an iron which has half a lycra top melted to the bottom and a clock-radio which, though reliable, has been left permanently scarred by a particularly nasty nail varnish incident.

Oh dear.

Gadget-wise I'm down to a novelty teapot and one of those new Toilet Duck gel rim canister thingies on the loo.

I might as well just give up -- or head down to Comet.

But then I don't actually know which is worse -- being surrounded by a range of knackered, conked out appliances in the safety of my own home or going in search of new ones and running the gauntlet of overzealous staff on commission to sell the latest designs.

Either way, if the remaining telly chucks in the towel, something will have to be done. Just don't let me touch anything, all right?