I know the answer is yes. It is me. Who else can it be? Who else’s fault is it that my new, super-duper, lovely red kitchen that I’ve worked and saved for, and which two nice men called Colin and Chris came to fit this very morning is – guess what? – approximately two and a half feet too short. Oh no. Hang on a minute: one foot eleven inches too short on one side and seven inches too short on the other. Of course it wasn’t the fault of the first man who came to measure it, or even the second one – surveyor, no less – who came after him to make 100 per cent sure that there were no little glitches. They took their very careful measurements and drew up a plan with lots of numbers and arrows and little green dots on with a line across (single socket) and some more with two lines across (double socket, wouldn’t you know) and yellow bits and blue bits and so many lines you go cross-eyed looking at them. And I never once thought to say: “Could you just explain that to me please? Could you just confirm that this  little drawing means that the units on the right actually meet the fridge-freezer and don’t stop seven inches away from it and leave a massive gap? Oh yes – and could I just seek reassurance that the unit on the opposite wall meets the bit where the window starts and doesn’t stop one foot eleven inches away from it so that instead of a cupboard which I could put things in, and a work surface which I could put things on, which would be really useful, there’s another massive gap which – guess what – I have no use for?” And the reason I didn’t ask all this was because I just kind of assumed that kitchen designers, for that is what they call themselves, designed kitchens that fitted given spaces, not kitchens that don’t. How stupid an assumption is that?
And the worst thing of all is that now, when I look at that plan, I can see with total clarity what had eluded me before: those white bits that I didn’t even realise were white bits are in fact spaces. It means there is nothing there. How did I miss that?
“I don’t want you to worry about it,” says the man on the end of the ‘phone – the man, in fact, who took the measurements the second time just to make sure there weren’t any silly gaps or anything.  “I shall come and see you in the morning and it will be sorted. The main thing, Mrs Everett, is that you should be happy with your kitchen. That’s all that matters. So don’t worry. Everything will be ok.”
Oh good. I’m smiling again. But it won’t be ok. Will it? I just know it.


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