- guardian.co.uk, Sunday May 26 2002 00.23 BST
- The Observer, Sunday May 26 2002
You don't need me to tell you that a trip to Ikea is a nightmare. But I can't resist it. In fact, I'll go further: a trip to Ikea is your worst nightmare. I know this because I did it last week. I even hired a van so that I could take my shopping (a wardrobe shell and its innards) home.
So there I was, sitting in my white transit van, listening to the radio at 10.30 on a Sunday morning. The shop doesn't open until 11, and I wondered why people had already started to queue. With five minutes to go, I glanced around the car park and realised that it was already full. Sensing mild hysteria, I made my way to the door, only to realise that while I had been waiting in the car, the queue had zig-zagged and wound its way all around the building. I joined it.
Five hours later, I emerged at the other end of the queue. It had taken about five minutes to actually process the order. I'd spent a couple of hours meandering around the store in a lobotomised state picking up things I didn't even want, before finally going to the pick-up point. But then it hit me. Everybody else who was in the queue five hours ago was still here, in Ikea purgatory, waiting for their name to be called out so they could proceed through the Pearly Gates to heaven. People are complaining. People are getting very angry. They are trying to be patient. They are trying not to raise their voices. But they have just about had enough!
The couple in front of me is presented with three trolleys piled high with about 60 components for their fitted kitchen. I am sure it will look very nice when it is all put together. But right now, I bet they are wishing that they had taken out a second mortgage and signed up for bar jobs and gone to Bulthaup instead. The couple tries to manoeuvre the trolleys past the out-of-control kids, the granny in her wheelchair, and through the crowds to join the next queue so they can pay for this privilege.
After more than another hour's wait, I join them, only to realise on the other side of the till that my wardrobe is too big and heavy to get into the van. So, I join the queue to have it delivered the next day. The fitted kitchen is being bar coded in front of me. Piece by piece. And after all that, what do the couple do? They join a queue for hot dogs. Some people are gluttons for punishment. Bang me over the head with a heavy implement any time.
