Last week, deciding our relationship was a bit too happy and stable, my other half and I decided to immediately rectify this with a trip to Ikea. We had been putting it off for months.
Having rented a new house during lockdown, when no shops were open, we lived like scavengers, seeing just how “essential” certain household items were.
We were testing our survival skills. “We’d outlast Bear Grylls in the wild,” we’d tell each other as we spread hummus on toasted sourdough using the back of a spoon instead of a knife. We didn’t have curtains for a few vulnerable weeks. It was a game of high risk and no reward, with only precariously placed bed sheets between us and our ability to look our neighbours in the eye.
We had tried to go to Ikea when it was open, but the length of the queues when we arrived meant I classified it strictly NA – not arsed. So on we went until disaster struck in the street-facing bedroom
We had tried to go to Ikea when it was open, but the length of the queues when we arrived meant I classified it strictly NA – not arsed. So on we went until disaster struck in the street-facing bedroom.
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With a slip of the sheet I might have flashed a lovely older gentleman in the neighbourhood. I can’t be sure if he just turned away quickly to spare me or just didn’t see.
At worst it would have been, maybe, a fleeting view of my left boob (my least favourite), and even, at that, just a partial one. But enough was enough. I didn’t want it getting around that I was a neighbourhood sex pest, harassing pensioners. So off furniture shopping we went.
I actually quite like Ikea. I don’t share the gripes other people have about putting things together or following the arrows on the floor. Ikea has a cafe where you can buy little bottles of wine, meaning you can be two drinks in while ambling about, pursuing throw blankets and matching scatter cushions. This is as close as I will ever probably get to knowing how it feels to be a rich lady of leisure.
But Ikea, and indeed any furniture or homewares store, can be cruel mistresses. They can trick you into buying products for a life that you do not live. You can forget yourself in those tiny but cleverly designed fake living rooms.
When you shop at Ikea you are shopping for a version of yourself that does not exist. A version who drinks water from glass carafes sitting on their desk. Who stays hydrated with actual water instead of living off Diet Cokes bought from highway Applegreens as they rush from job to job.
A version who has a partner who doesn’t play golf and puts his clubs where that shoe organiser will go. A version whose family does not stink when they sweat.
Your house isn't untidy because you work 40-hour weeks, eating every meal at home along with everyone else who also lives there. No, it's untidy because you don't have tiny boxes. And baskets. For putting things in
So, yes, you can use a chic rattan-lidded basket as a laundry holder instead of the ugly plastic one from Argos that seals in a smell so bad it makes visiting tradesmen ask if a mouse has died in the wall.
In this version you have children who respect upholstery, and where an all-white, high-pile living-room rug is a sensible choice. Not the tiny filth-wizards who currently live in your house and share your last name. The ones who frankly, if you could get away with it, you would simply hose down in the backyard before letting them in.
Your house isn’t untidy because you work 40-hour weeks, eating every meal at home along with everyone else who also lives there. Those others who have a habit of leaving trails of crumbs from the toaster to their home office, so they can find their way back to the kitchen every 40 minutes to make another mess.
No, it’s untidy because you don’t have tiny boxes. And baskets. For putting things in. Your life will be fixed by an assortment of wooden and felt boxes in a soft Scandi colour palette.
What do you put in the boxes? I don’t know. Mess. Your children. Do you really need them? Are they getting in the way of you living your most authentic life, one that involves non-machine-washable couch covers and 100 lit white candles? Your partner? Abandon them. Go and live in an elk cottage in the woods in peaceful vanilla-scented organisation. Grab some in-drawer dividers and you’re set.
We come away with €200 worth of “organising” things. But my problem isn’t organisation. It’s that I have too much stuff. I’ve bought more stuff to try and solve a problem caused by too much stuff. We are feeling defeated. They were out of stock of everything we needed. We just wanted one thing to put shoes in or on.
Our current system of shoe storage is leaving them in a big pile under the stairs, so we swear loudly when we can only find one shoe while the taxi waiting outside blares an impatient horn. But Ikea was sold out of every type of shoe rack, shoe organiser or hybrid shoe storage/bench yoke. Not just in store but online. Gone. None left. Has a family of budget-conscious centipedes with an appreciation of Scandi design beaten me to it?
So far the shoes are still sitting in a pile, as are the drawer organisers, but at least the curtains are up and we can look the neighbours in the eye again.