Why I Love IKEA

Because I'm not ashamed to admit that I do love it. So much so that I got up super early today to make the first Church service so that the boyfriend and I would have more time to traipse round the hallowed furniture store, fussing over whether to go for the glossy or matte finish on our bookcases and arguing over whether a furry rug was a bathroom necessity or not. (I lost the argument and we came home rugless.)
But I am fully aware that most [sane] people hate IKEA. With the sort of passion I usually reserve for football. Giving up my Sunday afternoon for that? No thank you.
So, why do I love it so much? Well, there are two reasons. Firstly, I’m a real home-loving, house-proud girl. Interior design, colour schemes, wacky props and understated designs are all my kinda thing. I ADORE seeing all the furnishings and colours and mentally redesigning every room in our flat. When we finally get a house, the boyfriend and I have agreed that we’re going to have a library/study. That’s my favourite room to design, because it’ll be the room I spend the most time in. I’ve always wanted a library – I blame my childhood fascination with ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and my mum's fascination with reading to me all the time. Gotta love her for it.


But, besides the excitement of planning our future home, I love the constant entertainment of IKEA. Oh yes. People watching – no better place for it. Forget watching soaps or studying psychology from textbooks – just get yourself down to IKEA and prepare to watch all kinds of dramas unfold before your eager eyes. And they're so predictable. The couples. I'm not ashamed to admit how amused I get when watching couples argue over the black sofa or the green one (not full blown rows; they’re embarrassing and tasteless. But watching a girl try every trick in her book to get the green sofa? Gets a smirk every time).
The children, and mums running after them, begging them to put down the Swedish novel/fake TV remote/kitchen fork that they are absentmindedly chewing as they wander in blissful ignorance through the stampede of stressed out shoppers. In amongst the crowd is the flustered browsing of women, who insist on picking up every item within reach (‘ooh – would this look good in the lounge? Mark never buys me flowers anymore, but maybe if we had an empty vase on the table...’) The men who have been here before have learnt, and usually have a firm grip on their wife’s elbow. This allows them to steer her away from unnecessary items which might distract from the task at hand, and propel her along through the different sections before she can get any dangerous ideas about redecorating the bathroom ‘whilst we’re at it’. ‘Must get shopping done ASAP’, the men think. ‘It’s hot and crowded and we need to get back to assemble these flaming wardrobes before the match starts. No darling, stop looking at the lightbulbs. Elizabeth, we DON’T NEED any more flaming lampshades!’
Then there are the students. ‘We need a desk. What’s the cheapest one available? This plastic one here? Cool. Ohh, it only comes in luminous yellow or pink? Umm... That’s okay. We’ll take it anyway. It’ll be quirky.’ No boys, it’ll be dreadful. But priceless.

I don't know how the boyfriend and I manage it - perhaps because we think the same way - but IKEA rows just don't happen for us. We go in, see something we like ("oh! I was JUST about to point that out to you! Let's get it!") and come home with it. Sorted.

Our 'rows', however, come once we're home. My sophisticated boyfriend loves nothing more than letting his guard down and being 'macho' every now and again by whacking bits of wood with a hammer. I like to read the instructions. Clear a suitably sized floor space. Line up all the parts and tools in the order I'll need them, with the appropriate tools - including necessary glass of Shiraz - within reach.

We drive each other bonkers, in the nicest possible way.

Eventually, we compromise. He whacks bits of wood with a hammer. I instruct on WHICH bits of wood to whack and concentrate on tightening the screws with a suitably sized screwdriver ("just use any old one," the boyfriend advises occasionally when he sees me delve in the box to find a new screwdriver for the new screws. This advice is duly noted and ignored.) and checking that all the angles are perfect. Yes, I am a neat freak. Even with flat pack furniture.