Last night, my baby sister took me to IKEA. Well, to be more accurate, she took me straight past IKEA, back past IKEA again, round the car park for IKEA, and then finally into IKEA itself. There were, it seems, some navigation issues. I try not to think about how she finds her way to and from outer Mongolia each workday.
Anyone who has been to IKEA will be well aware of the psychological condition that takes hold the minute you step through the door. Did I come to measure up a sofa-bed and a book case and to pick up a new closet organiser? I did? Well you can bet I will reach the checkout with a trolley full of soft furnishings, a few indescribable somethings without which my kitchen will not be complete, a new glass vase to add to my collection, and one or two random articles which I wasn’t even aware existed three hours earlier.
I never pick up one of those ubiquitous yellow bags straight away. I fool myself that I’m just browsing; that I can carry one or two trinkets, if they should take my fancy.
After the lamp, bulbs, and cushion covers are collected to my person, I give up and take a bag. Then, downstairs in the Market Hall, IKEA madness sets in, and I need a trolley to take care of the new rug, new inserts for the new cushions, a new rug gripper for the new rug, new food storage jars, a new plant pot…….
Still, at least all my purchases were there; on the shop floor. At least none of my purchases had to be waited for; waited forty-five minutes for, to be precise. Believe me, there are people still shopping in IKEA at 9:30pm. There are still people still queuing in IKEA at 9:40pm. There are still people eating hot dogs, french fries and fizzy drinks in IKEA at 10pm.
Oh yeah. That last one was only us.
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