Farmer H is trying to keep me in the dark.
It is an ongoing problem. One I learned of soon after our blessed union. Farmer H, you see, is not a reader. He's a not a joker, a smoker, or a midnight toker, either. Which is immaterial, really, because those activities do not require an optimum number of foot-candles for success.
With Farmer H, the lighting issue is all or nothing. It's either 40-watt bulbs, or 200-watt indoor floods directly overhead. So I can work in perpetual dusk, or on the surface of the sun. My mom gave me a floor lamp with an adjustable neck to put behind my basement recliner for reading. But my current issue is with the overhead kitchen light. Not that I'm going to read there. Farmer H is not a kitchen cook, either.
My ceiling light is over the cutting block. It's my main kitchen light. One I might use when reading labels, dosing out medication to under-the-weather children, assembling my world-famous Chex Mix, sorting potatoes, putting away groceries, or applying triple-antibiotic ointment and band-aids to The Pony's shredded knees. The under-counter fluorescents, and the over-sink floods, are not conducively located for such tasks. So I would truly appreciate enough light to do my kitchen business without resorting to guesswork.
Apparently, that is too much to ask. Well, not really too much to ask. Too much to expect to be remedied in a timely manner. There are three sockets in that light. One bulb is burning. And I assume it's only 40 watts. Because that is Farmer H's bulb of choice. This afternoon, I told The Pony to turn on the light so we could see how his knees were doing. He flipped the switch. My back was turned to that light. I could not tell when it was turned on.
That is not acceptable. Even by Mansion standards.