swedish chef

I went to Ikea yesterday to buy some spice jars for the kitchen and walked out with a wall unit. Well, I didn’t WALK out with it. I precariously wheeled it to the home delivery section. “Aha!” those of you who know Ikea are howling. (Howling like howler monkeys. In fact, I encourage you to howl like a howler monkey right now. I just did, and I’m at work.) After the howling, you continue: Ikea has flat packs! The furniture does not so much resemble furniture as it does a giant flat envelope, clothed in anonymous brown cardboard, much like porn for giants! And here’s where I raise my eyebrow at you (in fact I raise BOTH eyebrows as I lack the skill to just raise one, thereby destroying my rakish charm and my film career) and tell you I obtained the wall unit already made up in the clearance section. Ah, the clearance section. Filled with mysterious pieces of wood and half-made bedframes. Usually. But for some reason, on Saturday it was filled to bursting with bookcases and wall units and bathroom sinks and all manner of goodies. All about $200 off. Joy! I had been vaguely looking at a wall unit type arrangement and after some to-ing and fro-ing with my head (“Don’t need it.” “BUY BUY BUY!” “Don’t really need it.” “NOW NOW BUY NOW!”) I went to the man down the back and requested he load it onto a trolley for me. He did, cheerfully pushing past a small family who were inspecting it, who watched dumbfounded as it was loaded onto a trolley in front of them and wheeled merrily away by me. Got to be quicker than that, suckers!

Actually I already had a trolley, littered with the aforementioned spice jars and other Ikea sundries (teatowels, a colander, the planet Charon) and so I was finding it extraordinarily difficult to manoeuvre two trolleys through the checkout, particularly when one contained a wall unit on its side which was taller than me. Call it karma for snatching it from under the other people’s noses. Anyway, I managed, and got home and unloaded my kitchen supplies and the wall unit shelves, which I’d detached from the unit lest the delivery men damage or lose them. Mr. T eyed the shelves suspiciously.

“They look like shelves.”
“No they don’t. They’re … art.”
“They’re shelves.”
“Art.”
“What have you done?”
“It’s your fault! You let me go to Ikea by myself!”
“Oh god, what have you BOUGHT?”
“I had to! There were other people LOOKING at it!”
[stony silence]
“The men will deliver it tomorrow.”
[one eyebrow raise - it really pisses me off that he can do this and I can't]
“It’s already made up, you don’t have to put it together.”
“Really? That’s OK then. Carry on.”

Anyway, the Ikea men delivered it on Sunday morning and I spent the rest of the morning rearranging the lounge. When I say this, I mean that I pointed and Mr. T shifted furniture to and from the places I was pointing. It was surprisingly painless. Well, for me. And Mr. T got to soothe his handyman side by pulling out a drawer which didn’t shut properly and finding the runner was from a completely different piece of furniture (a buffet to be exact), so he hacksawed the end off and put it back together and indulged in a satisfying rant about the crapness of Ikea furniture. Then we talked in Muppet Swedish chef voices, for no apparent reason.

“Eh de put de runner in de dror.”
“Loo de doo de doo!”
“De ROOHNER. In de DROR.”
“Weet de lobsterr. Boink boink boink!”

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