The IKEA Experience
I’ve recently kitted out my bedroom with IKEA stuff. Well, partly. I don’t think two pieces of furniture constitutes a ‘kitting-out’, but they’re huge and take up loads of space, so I think that counts. They’re also the first things you see when you walk in. Does that mean I’ve subconsciously learnt the art of Fung Shui from their infamous showrooms? No, that’s just the only way they’d fit in.
That is essentially the IKEA experience: looking at great ideas that almost certainly won’t work in your own home. But not before heavily discussing it with whoever’s been brave enough to tag along. “That would look great next to the fireplace, but it would probably clash with the decorative bowl mum bought last week.” Shudder.
Another key part of it is being tempted by sheer guff you don’t need. And you fall victim to this without even realising. After completely zoning out when trying to remember how many centimetres long your wall is, (and what that is in inches) you come out of your catatonic state to find yourself holding an octopus with clothes pegs for tentacles. Snap out of it and throw that monstrosity back in the bargain bin from which it came.
You see, these Swedes know what they’re doing. The arrows that shine on the floor and keep you moving through the maze like guinea pigs, the sample two-bedroom flats that look misleadingly achievable, the strategically plotted short-cuts to different departments, the restaurant located halfway through your journey and even the fragrant candles towards the end that molest your nostrils. They’re probably looking down on us the entire time, rubbing their hands together and salivating, as they trick thousands of people into buying different cuttings of wood.
And who are we kidding? We bloody love it. We hate ourselves for it, but we love it nonetheless. There’s no chance of ignoring the sense of self-loathing when everyone’s queued up on the downward conveyor belt that takes you to the flat pack area, like cattle to the slaughter. You’ve written down the product name and aisle location, now you’ve got to find AND lift it off the shelf as if you’re being paid to do so. At which point you take a look at the item’s name: “KALLAX Bookcase”. Great. Your new piece of furniture sounds like some sort of thrush cream.
It’s one of the many forms of socially acceptable madness. Under no other circumstance would you browse through a catalogue, find something that weighs over 10st and think about lugging it down from an 8ft high piece of scaffolding. The equivalent at Argos would involve filling in one of those little order cards then hurdling over the counter to go and find the item yourself.
It’s not really an issue though. We know it’s kind of weird. Just as long as we take a long look at ourselves in one of the many mirrors we pass and think, “Christ, this is what my life has come to. This is the modern hell we live in,” we’ll most likely retain our sanity.
Chris Edwards - @CynicalCME
