As already indicated, I'm not particularly happy about this kitchen. Doubtless many who saw it and the wider house, would think: "What's he moaning about, should think himself lucky!", and, to an extent at least, they'd be right. But I look at this kitchen and see a triumph of looks and fashion over rational functionality. It's the interior design equivalent of a blonde-out-of-a-bottle bimbo.
Sitting back the other day and wondering what to do about it, my eye fell on the extractor hood over the cooker. "F*king useless contraption", I thought, remembering that my mother had had one installed in her house in Cambridge, and that periodically we were supposed to take the charcoal filters out of it and bake them in the oven to burn off all the accumulated gunge. Of course, this made the house stink for days anyway, negating the whole purpose of it. "It's not as though anyone these days bothers to pressure-cook a chicken carcase to make stock, the way Ma did", my thoughts continued, "Certainly not me anyway! Bloody idiot's cut through the picture rail to mount it, too! And it's dangerously low! I wonder how long it'll be before I bump my head on it, corners look nice 'n' sharp!"
It was 5 days, and it was savage. I've now got a throbbing lump on my forehead only about 1.5" to 2" from my right eye. The piece of junk is now in the utility room. I reckon it's less of a liability as something to trip over.
There ought to be a law protecting tall people like me from the consequences of short-arsed thinking.