Stockholm syndrome

Who wants to hear a thrilling tale of desire, loss, betrayal and despair?

Excellent. Let me tell you about my recent experiences in Ikea.

Expedition the first.

We set out boldly, full of hope. We had a Detailed List, and a not so detailed list, combining things like "Leksvik bookcase, 192cm high, 2x" with "lounge stuff" and "bedroom stuff". But I was pretty sure I knew what I wanted. And we had schematics of our home, with measurements and everything.

The big challenge, really, was just going to be finding a shelving solution for my second stockroom. Lots of options. Lots of separate parts required. But I had some ideas, and did I mention schematics? And we had all night. We could do this.

Having had some prior experience of Ikea,* we decided to fortify ourselves with a quick meal first. We got food, we sat down, we mildly enjoyed ourselves, indulging Beloved's inexplicable fondness for muzak, and my very explicable fondness for those delicious little chocolatey-spicey-cakey things. Then we headed in.

"Would-you-like-an-Ikea-card, get-five-percent-off-your-purchases-today?" said a rather forceful woman at the entrance. Ooh, we thought, 5% off our entire house full of goodies - sofa, bed, shelving system - yeah, that's worthwhile. Sign us up!

So Beloved got a card, and we worked our way through the store. We sat on sofas. We debated the merits of the fabulous red corduroy (cat hair attracting) versus the dull beige canvas (non-cat hair attracting), and the even more fabulous textured turquoise cotton thing (cat hair attracting and non-removable). We considered the corner unit, the 3-seater, the footstool, the sofa bed, the corner sofa bed and the chaise longue. We looked at coffee tables and sideboards. We mused over chests of drawers and bedside tables. We checked our schematics. We mused some more. We compared wood and wood-like finishes. We investigated shelving solutions. We admired mirrors. We picked up this and that. Eventually, we left the market hall** with a trolley full of The Small Stuff and a packing list for The Big Stuff. Most of it, anyway.

It was well after 11pm. We were Quite Tired. Since we were clearly not going to be able to fit everything (sofa, anyone?) into the car anyway, we decided to make a break for it and come back. We really wanted to collect a dining table and chairs, but the one we wanted was sold out. "We're getting more tomorrow," we were told. We really wanted a catalogue, so that we could make further decisions from the comfort of our own internet-less home, but they were out of that too. "We're getting more tomorrow." Clearly tomorrow was going to be a big day. Who knew what joys would be delivered tomorrow!

Well, our next visit would, clearly, be a piece of piss, since we now had all these great notes. So we exited, claiming our 5% off vouchers... which of course came to a princely £10, since we'd left all the big stuff for next time. Naturally, this only occurred to me later.

Two days later: Expedition the second.
[NB: This took place after a separate trip to Warren Evans, during which we resolved our bedroom situation. This meant a whole room less to furnish at Ikea. Really, what was left? Nothing! This would be FINE!]

We ventured back, notes at the ready. We had a pretty specific plan for what we needed to buy, although some decisions still had to be made, some pick-up locations still needed to be identified. Clearly, we'd be out of there in an hour and a half at the outside, right?

Well.

We made it out... eventually. Having made some shrewd calculations as to what would need to be ordered online later. Our dining table set was still unavailable. "Come back tomorrow." Well, bugger all that. Is it online? Great. How about the sofa? Excellent. Bookcases? No problem. The shelving solution - well, no, that I needed to buy in person. So that was what we'd get. That and a few other small things. Let's go. Having now applied for my own Ikea card, specifically in order to get more damn vouchers - AHAHAHAAAA! - this time I was able to claim a princely... £30. Oh well. Time to pack the car.

Now, picture the scene.
EXT CAR PARK, NIGHT.

CAR PARK ATTENDANT: You want some help loading the car?
BELOVED: No thanks, we're fine here.

[Commence packing. It is hard. The car is small. The boxes are many, and large.]

PASSING VAN MAN: [unintelligible, but probably something like "you need a delivery service?"
BELOVED: No thanks, we're fine here.

[Recommence packing. The car is still small. The boxes are still large.]

BELOVED: This is like one of those religious stories, where God keeps sending you help and you turn it down...
ME: Then it's a good thing you don't believe in God.
BELOVED: Right.

[Recommence packing.]

CAR PARK ATTENDANT: You know, if I were doing this, we'd be done already.
BELOVED: Well okay then.

[They pack. They are indeed done very quickly. The boxes are still large, but so is the car park attendant.]

BELOVED: That's great. Thank you. Really, thanks a lot. Okay then.
ME: [sotto voce] You don't think we should tip him?
BELOVED: [equally sotto voce] I don't have any money.
ME: *sigh* Here, something for your trouble. Thanks a lot. Good night.

[We climb into the car. In my case, this involves quite startling contortions, as my seat is largely occupied by boxes.]

BELOVED: You all right there?
ME: Sure, as long as I don't have to navigate, since I can't lift my head.
BELOVED: But you do have to navigate.
ME: Um... okay. Sure. Whatever.

[Beloved starts the car.]

BELOVED: I can't drive.
ME: ...???...
BELOVED: I shouldn't drive. This isn't safe. I can't see.
ME: ...Okay.

So we unloaded those big damn boxes (the car park attendant could see us, but had clearly decided we were crazy and to be avoided) and went back in to find the delivery service. At which point we realised that, since the delivery charges were banded according to total order value, we could go back and do *more shopping* to get the most value out of our damn delivery charge. Hooray for sofas! And gi-huge mirrors that we could never have gotten in our car! And stuff! Apart from a few things that were out of stock and would so need to be sorted out online, we now had everything! Yay us! No more Ikea!

Interlude.

Beloved made use of his work internet to place an online order. We will apparently have a dining table set delivered on April Fool's Day. I am trying not to see this as an omen.

The delivery arrived. It included four really, really, really heavy boxes that needed to be taken to the top floor and assembled there. We lugged the boxes up the stairs. Beloved was at pains to point out to me that when we leave this house, he will Not Be Helping with taking these shelves down again. I opened the boxes to start assembling shelves.

They were the wrong damn colour.

Also, Beloved took fright at the enormous size and weight of the mirror and decided he Will Not Hang It, for fear of making the entire house collapse.

Just like in Lost, season four... We have to go back.

Expedition the third.

We decided, this time, to go to the Croydon store, instead of Wembley. It is really bloody far away, and I had no idea how to drive to Croydon, but it's a much nicer store - and more to the point, it had various items In Stock.

We still had to figure out how to get the boxes into the car. The boxes and mirror that, last time around, were simply too damn big. No problem, said Beloved, I Can Has Rope!

We loaded the car. In the rain. And the hail. And the snow. And, freakishly, the sun. (I'd like to say that all this weather was happening at the exact same time, but that would be a lie. Almost two whole minutes separated the sun-and-hail from the snow-and-rain.) Eventually, an exciting cat's-cradle affair was constructed to hold the boxes in the open boot, while we drove to Croydon. In subzero temperatures. With an open boot.

We got to Croydon in quite a chilly state, but hey, we made it, and had no trouble returning the goods. We went in. We are really rather sick of Ikea by now. The traditional fortifying supper failed to quite ameliorate the misery. But hey - we didn't have much to get, right? And we knew exactly what it all was. We'd be done quickly.

Inexplicably, Beloved decided to dawdle in the lighting department. And everywhere else. "But I'm tiiiiiiired!" I whined. "But we need to get this right!" he insisted. Still, I did finally succeed in dragging him out of the market hall, and we found the locations for the shelves we needed (right colours and everything).

They were not there.

The blasted shelves, that cannot be bought online and cannot be found at Wembley, were not there. I opened my mouth and drew breath.

In a split-second act of pure desperation, Beloved moved to avoid my tantrum by asking a passing minion if there weren't maybe some more of these shelves hiding somewhere PLEASE GOD LET THERE BE SHELVES.

There were shelves!

Unbelievable.

We got the shelves (after only half an hour or so of standing around waiting). We bought the shelves (even remembering, only just, to pay for them using our assorted discount and refund vouchers). We packed the car, again, with more cat's cradles, still in the freezing cold, and drove all the way back from Croydon without having them fall out of the car. We got them home, and up the damn stairs. We were hit with a £50 fine for late return of the streetcar, making those thrice-cursed shelves rather more expensive than they should have been, but that's another story. I opened the box. They were the right colour! Hurrah! I built some shelves, noting as I did so that one piece was quite significantly (if only cosmetically) damaged and really shouldn't be accepted, but at this stage there's no way in hell we're going back to Ikea, so I'll just deal with it. I covered a wall of the spare room/second stockroom in shelving.

And you know what?

Those are some damn ugly shelves.

_____
* Note for South Africans and Martians: Ikea is a huge, warehouse-style repository of cheap flat-pack (i.e. to be assembled by you, at home) furniture. It is theoretically possible to entirely furnish a small flat for less than £1,000 with Ikea's entry-level stuff. (Whether or not such a flat would be worth living in, I leave to the reader as a philosophical exercise.) It is also theoretically possible to find some rather nicer, but still very cheap, solid wood furniture, not to mention a vast array of Storage Options.

Ikea is Swedish, and there is a cafeteria-style restaurant attached, as well as a hot dog stand and a little shop full of Swedish foodstuffs. This seemed utterly bizarre to me until the end of my first Ikea trip, when I realised that I had been there for three or four rather stressful hours, and it was no longer ludicrous to consider sitting down and eating something in that pit of despair.

All you really need to know about Ikea is that the words "I've just been to Ikea," or indeed "I have to go to Ikea," are likely to elicit a heartfelt response of "Oh you poor thing!", in tones usually reserved for condolences on a great personal loss.

And yet, we go back. In some cases, we go back... and back... and back.

**The three circles of hell: the showroom, where you can consider furniture styles, bedroom layouts etc, and make notes of where to collect the actual furniture; the market hall, where you can pick up smaller items; and the "self-service area", where you can are meant to find the boxes that will eventually become furniture.