I went to Ikea for the first time last weekend. (I know, I’m so behind but I feel pretty old these days, a smidgen past my quarter century. *wry.*)
It was quite a family affair, myself, Mary 2 and our Mum who does what she always does in any form of department store. She heads straight for Kitchenware and gets well and truly LOST in there for practically the duration of our entire trip. She’s always so happy though.
Obviously I made stupid innuendos to my friends prior to the event:
“I’m popping my Ikea cherry this weekend. The Swedish have experience…” 😉
I can’t believe I didn’t joke about getting the flat-pack up… Although I’m also glad because sometimes consider ending this blog for immodesty reasons. (Future MIL.)
Initially it took ages to get inside because of the conveyors similar to those you find at airports? I always feel compelled to charge down those them because they are so slow.
I’m usually all: “I sit around in cafés all day being witty, having existential crises and eating an almost illegal amount of cake” but given a choice, I will always take the stairs. Legs that work are a blessing. They are also half decently toned even if they’re short like a dwarf Shetland’s…
“Hey Mary 2, should we get a bag?”
“Nope. We won’t need one, I only need to buy a lamp.”
“Ooookay.” Mary Poppins had a bag for hers…
CUT TO: LATER.
“I need a bag…”
“Well I asked you earlier...” Cashing in Smug Big Sister rights like a Boss.
The principle attraction of Ikea was the attention to detail and the show-rooms that looked like film sets. I’ve still yet to walk out on one as part of work. Hope so!
“Welcome to my bedroom… and here’s my walk in closet.” Giggled my sister while modelling the set like a glamorous assistant.
“Shut UP, NO WAY!” I did an Upper East Side accent:”I figured I’d treat myself seeing as I’ve just made partner at my Law Firm…”
There was also an amazing grey, white, black and teal room, with immaculate white shirts in the fitted open closet. I say ‘closet’ because wardrobes ought to have doors, although the word ‘closet’ would suggest that the aforementioned receptacle can be closed.
“Woah. This is a guy’s room. This is… totally like a European businessman’s bedroom.”
I’d have to be so much prettier to end up here for real. Or like, the cleaner. Or like… J-Lo.
“And the bathroom is through here.”
“Serious? There’s a wet-room. Oh my God…”
” I think this is Mr Grey’s bedroom!” (We both laughed like loons.)
So in summary I texted my friend, remarking that: “It took a long time to get good, but I enjoyed it on a theatrical level.”
Unanticipated outcome: Ikea has sent me on a tidying and organising jag as I was entirely unaware of quite how much pointless junk I own. I’ve been doing some DIYs too.
~ Pola ~