Domestic Bliss Comes with an Allen Key

I made a gigantic mistake yesterday.

On my drive home from the Gold Coast I popped into Ikea for what I was hoping some household retail therapy.

What a stressful experience!  The car park was full, you had to fight people for a wheelie trolley, people meander around aimlessly picking things up without really looking at them and it’s depressing that Ikea has a much nicer bedroom than yours.

Of course, it is really my own fault for going on a Sunday.  And I feel sorry for all the children and partners whose parents/spouses have dragged them along to domestic fantasy-land on their day off.

Ikea would have you believe that domestic bliss comes in a flat pack box accompanied with an Allen Key.  When in reality what you get is a man, roughly in his mid-late twenties/early thirties, carrying a yellow Ikea bag or pushing a trolley, saying “Yep that looks good”, “Really babe, whatever you want”.  When really he is grumbling to himself and thinking about how he would rather be at the pub. 

The whole place put me in a bad mood because I either could not afford, or didn’t have the space for what I wanted.  I did however leave with a pretty cool lap-top rest thing (which am typing on right now) and some flexible ice-cube trays.

And one day in the future, when I am a grown up, I shall take my unwitting boyfriend to Ikea and make him look at cushions, wardrobes and bedside tables.  But I’ll be sure to give him sexual favours afterwards.