Aesthetically, my kitchen is a multi-cultural slice of 1970s Mediterraneana, though not the sort you would ever see within the pages of Wallpaper*. I call the look 'spaghetti west-end' (think Soho trattoria, circa '71) but in estate agentese this could translate into 'hacienda style' - as rendered by a blind Spaniard on hallucinogens. The 'design concept' behind my kitchen has about as much integrity as did the art direction during Elvis's 'Aloha Hawaii' period; even Abigail wouldn't want to throw a party in it.

There is, for example, an arched entrance that lacks only a pair of swinging saloon doors to give it that New Mexican bodega-meets-Jean-Machine-changing-room effect. Then there's another arch over the groovy milk chocolate-coloured Spectrum range cooker (such a Seventies word 'Spectrum', particularly when rendered in a futuristic typeface and used to describe an object with a defunct rotisserie), which discreetly (unless one makes the mistake of turning it on) houses an asthmatic Vent-Axia extractor.

At some point, in a Dali-esque DIY frenzy, the room's window frames were stained glossy caramel, turning perfectly acceptable Edwardian wood into 'wood-effect' wood. Other highlights include an interesting arrangement of pygmy cupboards with a striking hessian-style veneer, coupled with intriguingly greige-coloured worktops, splashbacks and a 'breakfast bar' constructed from wonky, germ-harbouring 'rustica' ceramic tiles.

Though it was never my intention to do so, I've lived with this retro-feast for the last five years while making a part-time hobby of buying specialist adult publications and cruising Wigmore Street. Here, lured by the red lights - those naughty LED come-hither winks - every shop front, from Bulthaup to Magnet, boasts stickers marked 'NEW GRILLS!' next to the doorbells. Then there are the seductive accessories - the best reason to indulge in a wedding list, frankly - inside Divertimenti, kitchenware's answer to Agent Provocateur (and, as it happens, owned by my lovely godfather).

Recently, some of my closest friends have been involved in traumatic house makeovers. I have not envied any of them the tears, teeth-gnashing, sleepless nights, writs and breakdowns, but the results have been universally spectacular. 'So it must have been worth it?' I inquired cheerily of one hollow-eyed friend as she gave me a tour, ending up in the epicentre of operations - a beautiful, fully-loaded, streamlined, gleaming Starship Enterprise of a gastropod. She raised an eyebrow: 'Wait till you see this...' she warned, opening the new dishwasher. 'It is so anal and over-designed that - look! - every single piece of cutlery has to be arranged in its own special holder. It takes twice as long to load the bloody thing as it does to wash it.'

Without a dishwasher or even a grill (I'm sure the querulous Spectrum must have had one once) domestic inconvenience is relative. But, though pistachio with jealousy, I could see her point: indulging a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to realise her full culinary potential, my friend had been completely seduced by added extras. Sadly, the result could be a kitchen so demandingly hi-tech it provokes even domestic goddesses to kick holes in stained glass windows. If it's there you've got to use it, after all. You might creep in at midnight with intent to rustle up scrambled eggs on toast but the kitchen will sneer, preferring free-range huevos rancheros with a little insalata mixta on the side.

So I've decided it's nothing as obviously straightforward as not being able to afford one that stops me going out tomorrow and ordering a new kitchen. It's simply that, due to the hacienda's obvious stylistic(not to mention practical) shortcomings (aside from the dead grill and the ex-rotisserie, only three of the Spectrum's four burners and one of its two ovens still works. And that's the oven the size of a mitt), my extraordinary culinary potential will remain mysteriously untapped through absolutely no fault of my own. Hell, if I replaced the kitchen, I'd have to justify it by giving regular dinner parties. Back, furtively, then to Wigmore Street where I can enjoy a fetish that, unlike dining, is most fun when indulged alone. Hasta la Vent-Axia, baby.