Like Ikea?

BoldBelvoir Whinge Leave a Comment

I’m 52 in a couple of week’s time and, up until last Sunday, I was very proud to say I was an Ikea virgin. Yep, I had managed OK, thank you very much, without going to Ikea all of my life.

However, last weekend I was persuaded that there was something there ‘we needed’, so I couldn’t get out of  it. Now our nearest Ikea store is  advertised as being in Nottingham. It’s not. It is about 8 miles away and closer to Kimberley. It is in the middle of nowhere, close to the arsehole of the universe, which unfortunately isn’t indicated on SatNav.

So I drove for about an hour in 27 degrees of heat, which was nice, and eventually arrived, complete with sweaty scrotum, at the vast, characterless hanger that was ‘Ikea’. But, despite the outward appearance, once I was inside, I loved it! By that, I mean I FUCKING HATED IT! Masses of people wandering around (you all have to walk in the same direction, following the arrows) like mindless sheep, all looking at cheaply-made tat that they have been persuaded is fashionable or indispensible and then queueing up for hours to pay for it.

I almost panicked when we couldn’t find the exit. It was a bit like that episode of Father Ted where they get lost in the lingerie section of the clothes shop. When we finally found the door, there was a loading bay the size of  Terminal 5 at Heathrow. Hoards of people loading boxes and boxes of  god-knows-what into cars and vans like ants tending to the Queen’s eggs. I stumbled out of there into the sunlight, gasping for breath. And we didn’t even buy anything.

I considered keeping this sordid episode to myself, but I knew someone would find out. So I decided to ‘fess up here. I am not proud of this episode, dear readers. My Ikea cherry has been popped.

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