BOOK REVIEW / FICTION : A Witty Day in the Life of One British Family’s Adventures : TAKING APART THE POCO POCO <i> by Richard Francis</i> ; Simon & Schuster $21, 256 pages

British domestic comedy requires, like crab paste sandwiches, a “taste for it.” In the case of Richard Francis’ “Taking Apart the Poco Poco,” this includes patience with an anthropomorphic dog called Raymond, with a drunk whose dialogue is as hard to understand as those potty eccentrics’ speeches on “Masterpiece Theatre” productions, quite a few tedious memory-grazings and appallingly tight print. On the other hand, Francis has great fun with his deft dissection of family life and British culture, and, most of the time, so does the reader.

The Poco Poco is a dance hall down the street from John and Margaret. They met there 20 years ago--today is their 19th wedding anniversary--and now it’s being demolished. There’s the mild implication that their marriage, too, is wobbly, but these are good blokes all, and a fallen building isn’t, ultimately, the symbol of anything more than a midlife tremor.

Francis has built a simple structure, nothing more than an amplification of the classic child’s circle story, but he orchestrates the single day’s outings of each family member so that their adventures and near-mishaps overlap and cleverly resolve in surprisingly intricate ways.

Meet the family. First there’s Raymond the dog, who sets the day in motion by knocking a frozen chicken off the washing-machine. Clumsy Raymond is big on smells and given to rueful musings. In the beginning, he’s funny, but in time a bit much, as when his nose detects something different in Margaret--”a place lit by the moon, where heads would moan in unison, lips drawn back, teeth gleaming in the dark light.” Much better are the dog’s own misadventures, what with chasing squirrels and other dogs’ scents.

Margaret, wife and mother, wakes distracted by a burdensome secret. She’s on her way to see the breast cancer doctor, and as she makes her way through the day, toward an embarrassing, hilarious near-fling (her word), she proves herself to be a sensible, reflective woman.

Her worries go like this: “She ought to stand in the world on her own two feet, as much herself as a tree is a tree, or a daisy is a daisy, or a sheep is a sheep. Except that soon she mightn’t be able to stand on her own two feet at all.” Francis makes her worries about a mastectomy--and death--genuinely touching and genuinely amusing at the same time, an admirable feat.

John has been going through life lately “with the sense that everything he looked at had just shut its door on him.” Which is to say, he’s hot for Mrs. Clarke, down at the bank where he is assistant manager. He’s a stumbler. His window-wipers are stuck on; he takes too long in the Gents; he’s clumsy with Mrs. Clarke (endearingly so). And, funniest of all, he is bowed under the weight of his Monday’s terrible rant at his boss . His effort to “beard Mr. Gardiner” (whatever that means) gives him forward movement; he’s afraid he’s really done it.

Ann, daughter and big sister, is off to play hooky with a group of Christian friends. They’re going to a “hoedown,” some kind of fundraiser, in a van. Along the way, the group is waylaid by a stalled motor, and what was supposed to be a “pure” journey turns into a pub crawl and a picnic where they gorge on egg sandwiches and pork pies. Ann’s summary of her evangelical acquaintances is sharp, but the other kids just aren’t that interesting and neither are the day’s events.

Stephen, on the other hand--he’s the little one--is full of fears of robbers and kidnapers. When he sets out to walk to school a short while after Ann and fails to see her at her bus stop, he mounts her bus and encounters the bizarre stranger, “the blotherin’ man,” who says things like “Cherwant?” and “Armour saint in holy clothing,” and follows Stephen around all morning like an odd guardian angel.

Stephen’s biggest problem is finding the stop at his own school, once he’s passed it by the first time. That takes long enough that he’s overcome by a really big “wee,” which requires a trip to the Gents at a museum--and so on, till it’s all a bit tiresome. Still, it’s clever and touching when he does find school and the day’s been turned topsy there, too.

Now, a novel can be good for several reasons. Or not. If it’s profound meaning you’re after, this is a light one, much less biting and undertoned than Francis’ earlier, bolder satires, “Swansong” and “The Whispering Gallery.” If it’s story line, well, it’s light stuff, though devilishly managed. But if it’s wit, Francis is your man, full of word play and just plain words, British style.