As part of my New Years Resolutions, I aimed to blog more but so far I’ve been to the gym more frequently than I have blogged.
Yes, 14 days into 2018 and I have been to the gym a grand total of 1 times. Which means my blogging needs some serious TLC. Fortunately today, I can put a little tick under the blogging section of my Bullet Journal. I’m so on trend with my resolutions this year aren’t I?
Today’s topic is something that I have been thinking about a lot lately and wondering if it’s really as a contentious issue as I imagine.
In my household we mainly argue about the following; the washing up, the Playstation (other consoles are available, preferably ones that don’t live in my house) and our music preferences.
But since the other half has gone to get a tyre and I am happily and uninteruptedly listening to a bouncy mix of the Fratellis and Arctic Monkeys, I wonder if there is a bigger issue in our household. As if I needed further confirmation I woke up this morning to this Instagram post sent from the boyfriend himself…
That’s right folks – Ikea, Sweden’s answer to Jeremy Kyle – otherwise known as The Destroyer of Relationships. No need to take a lie detector sweetie, take a stroll into the practical, yet modern range of homeware and let the guided floors guide your partner into telling you everything he resents about you most. Spoiler Alert – the thing he hates most, is that you dragged him to Ikea in the first place (Although judging by some of the folks on Jezza Kyle, you probably should have dragged him to a dentist).
Now I just don’t get it. I love Ikea. I love that they rarely change their furniture ranges, I love that they actually put those stupid arrows on the floor, I love the promise of a plate of meatballs half way through. Every time I go to Ikea it looks exactly the same as the first time I ever went, but somehow, those arrows mean you have to look at absolutely everything just so that you can say “I still like that bookcase”. Good old dependable Billy.
But some people seem to hate it with every fibre of their being, unfortunately those are the people you often need to help you with the heavy flatpack lifting at the end.
When I went to get the wardrobe for the spare room, I stupidly went alone. Upon reaching self service at the very end, I was confronted with three enormous boxes, each of which weighed more than me – and let’s be clear about this, I eat, what is probably above the UK average amount of consumed pasta.
But in the age of modern feminism and I Don’t Need No Man mentality, I was going to get this wardrobe home. I carefully pushed my trolley right up to the boxes and with all my strength lifted the first box on. So far so good.
Unfortunately by the third box, I’d developed a hernia and my foray into independence was becoming increasingly less exciting. I therefore paid for my boxes and decided to enlist some help from Ikea staff. I asked the nice woman at the till and she said if I asked on the way out someone would come help me. So off I toddled only to find no bugger around.
Literally the place had suddenly emptied of yellow uniforms. I waited a while, contemplated going to get a hot dog, waited a bit longer. No one there. So I went outside hoping to see someone by the loading bay. There was still no one. By this point I was getting a bit upset and my hernia was hurting so I thought I’d just check once more inside. I couldn’t go in through the entrance as I’d get trapped in the yellow arrows again so I tried to go back in through the exit. Rookie mistake. Predictably the doors don’t open for people coming the wrong way – it was a bit like trying to get onto platform 9 and 3/4 and finding the wall was blocked up as the trolley, the wardrobes and myself crashed into the door and reverberated backwards.
Embarrassed, I decided just to suck it up and go to my car. With the strength of the Hulk I somehow got the three boxes into the car. A task of herculean effort. Sweaty and breathless I drove home, vowing never to go to Ikea alone again.
You’d think that would be the end of my wardrobe worries. Nope, then we had to build it.
We didn’t have a lot of space to build the three door wardrobe in, nor did we have a lot of patience. The major trauma occurred when we realised we needed to turn the wardrobe around. There wasn’t room to swing a cat, never mind a wardrobe. Nevertheless I had one job. To hold the side panel still.
In my defence I thought I was holding it still but the loud splintering sound suggested otherwise. I’d actually managed to rip the screws out of the chipboard effectively breaking it.
Well that was it. The yelling, the crying, whilst the boyfriend looked on in horror. I went to bed 4 times that night in a strop. The sad realisation that we’d had to buy the wardrobe on a budget and then were now going to have to buy another one was just too much. Fortunately a bit of wood glue and we now had a functioning wardrobe, albeit not with the ease that the Swedes intended.
I know there is a recurrent theme in these blogs that I seem to cry a lot, but at least this time it was more warranted than over a sausage roll.
So yes Ikea I love you, but I love my relationship more therefore I’ll limit my visits to you this year and will not be attempting any more flatpack. Sorry.