Ikea
Aldous Huxley, the famous English Novelist and Critic, once wrote: ”Hell isn’t merely paved with good intentions, it is walled and roofed with them.”
Good intentions come in spades when a trip to Ikea is suggested, not
least when its suggested by me. For some strange reason, and against all evidence, I usually feel confident that some other, more pressing, engagement will prevail and my altruistic self sacrifice will be nothing more than a gold star in my copybook of ’Things I Do For You.’
After an afternoon walking drone-like around clean cut Swedish aisles offering such delights as Leksvig, Barnslig, Fabler, Korall Bubblor and, not forgetting, Sniglar, you start to appreciate what old Aldous was referring to. Witnessing such a confusing array of multicoloured ‘necessities’ jutting out from every angle, I found myself deeply puzzled at what some fluffy fabric or injection moulded bright orange plastic could be (no clues given by the packaging) but couldn’t escape the feeling that whatever it was, it was somehow essential.
As events transpired, we walked away with a cot, some bedding, some fabric squares (towels?) and something made out of rope. I spent the rest of the day feeling drained, penniless and somewhat unhappy with the living room because it doesn’t have that squiggly rafia thing that hangs from the ceiling…
Ta!