Red Wine Express

I’ve been to Ikea three times in my life. The last time was last Friday and hopefully it’s the last, last time because I had sworn an oath that my lifetime visit limit had been reached when I hit two. But it was not to be. The prodigal son has his own apartment that is only sparsely furnished so the child bride and I were required to accompany him into this maze of doll’s house – like rooms. And speaking of mazes, I’ve never been in the Hampton Court Maze but I am pretty sure I know how boring it would be and how difficult it would be to get out of so the analogy is perfect.

The only reason I was there was to be the assistant beast of burden. The CB was there to give advice on whether or not a particular ceramic dish was dishwasher friendly, or something. The son was choosing what he wanted (and paying for it – a novel twist on what had previously been a recurring theme) and was also the principal beast of burden as he is somewhat bigger than me.

Daughter and son-in-law had just returned the CB’s Subaru Outback after a brief three year borrow. Suitable transport for flat-pack bookcases was absent until the return of said vehicle so there were no more excuses not to go. The Ikea on the southside of town is 450 metres closer than the one on the north side of town (thank you Google Maps) so southwards we trekked.

Driving there and parking then unparking and driving back is a breeze compared to walking around once you are inside. The evil genius who designed these places made it impossible to take short-cuts. If what you want is right near the entrance you still have to walk past everything else in the store to get to the check-out. I know of some people who enjoy this style of shopping. They are deranged. I saw people, mostly men, who looked like they had been there for a week. Fortunately there are hundreds of bedrooms to choose from if you become trapped. The only peripheral benefit of traipsing round these places is the fitness aspect. I’m pretty sure I logged (this time, courtesy of Mr Apple) more steps there than the day before when I played a round of golf. And believe me, I have visited places on that golf course that have not felt human footsteps for generations.

The last time the CB and I furnished an apartment with flat-pack furniture, I couldn’t walk upright for a week. This time I was happy to assist in carrying the boxes to son’s apartment, depositing them in his lounge room and leaving them there, unopened.