Good writing day on Saturday, dreadful one yesterday. So it goes. (Here's hoping this afternoon's words are a little less stubborn.)
I blame IKEA.
I have not been inside an IKEA store since, well, I'm not sure I've ever been inside one. If I have, it was many, many years ago. And by that I mean at least one decade, if not two. Which, given my memory archives are labelled "Today," and "ALLLLLLL other times" (and both drawers are equally empty) I'm sure you'll agree may as well count as never.
I have been in the Helsinki airport, during my increasingly bemused exploration of which I recall wondering if the plane hadn't perhaps made an unscheduled landing in an IKEA store instead of the airport it promised me, but that's another story.
Although that other story also features the same complete inability to find an exit. At one point, I genuinely considered sending a text to my fellow Melbournites: in IKEA. Doors suddenly all fake! Cannot even find door I entered by! Real exit an urban myth! Beset by sentient furniture or delusions, can't tell which. Send search & rescue, stat!
And the people! So many arguments about the choice of bookshelves and bathroom cabinets! My favourite was the woman berating her mother: "We're here to get rid of stuff, Mum! Not clutter the house up more!" 😯 Oh! And the woman berating a poor salesboy after learning that the furniture did not come pre-assembled. "What? It's ALL flatpack? Even the rollers have to be put on by hand? But that's ridiculous!"
I mean, seriously. Where has she been living this past, what, forty years? Even I know IKEA's selling point is THE JOYS OF FLATPACK!
In an experience I suspect is common to many first-time and even veteran shoppers of this behemoth of a store, I managed to acquire exactly none of the items I wanted, and a handful of items I…didn't know I wanted. Including a peace lily. Of COURSE I wanted a peace lily, right?