How to spoil a perfectly good evening

Went to IKEA last night: my daughter is moving into a new house with friends, so we all go to Ikea to buy her some cheap tat.

Starts off not too bad. Monday night quite quiet,

I have a good look round the kitchen dept,

Kitchen Department
... which I actually quite like, being food related. My slight bonhommie lasts six minutes, until we get to saucepan choosing. Non-stick or stainless steel? Double or single handle? Enough for one, or will you be cooking for guests? Separate frying pan? Even the subject of Woks I believe was mentioned. I did point out that everything was sold out apart from a twenty foot mound of scrap metal masquerading as a pile of paella pans, but it fell on deaf ears.

I wandered round the corner into the bedding department.

Bedding Department

Gentle reader, if there is anything on this planet duller than the bedding department of Ikea, I have yet to see it. I was so bored I wanted to eat my own face.

I stroll on, determined to keep the red mist at bay. I recall the conversation earlier that evening

Mrs “Do you really want to come?”

Me “Yes, I might find something useful” (why did I think this??)

Mrs “You won't get bored and make a scene?”

Me “When have I ever made a scene?”

She lowers her chin, raises her eyebrows, and stares me down

Me “I'll be fine - really. Let's go”

I wander into the bathroom department and study the toilet brushes. They are called Nodd or some such. Everything has a name in Ikea. That's a job I wan to dot. I want to be paid to name toilet brushes. I can do that.

No sign of my family. I start examining the toilet seats:

Ikea's spring collection - just in

...stacks of wooden and plastic two-part toilet seats called Nargg. I pick one up and put my head through the hole. Tee hee this is fun. With my head poking out between the seat and the lid, I retrace my steps, looking for my family. I plan to surprise them. Aha! There they are in bedding, comparing relative duvet Tog ratings.

I creep up, leap out from behind a huge mound of pillows called Gorfff, and roar loudly at them. I am met with complete and stony silence. They are not my family. There is a woman and younger lady who look a bit like them. I remove my head from the hole and back off, examining the seat intently as if sizing up its suitability for some depraved purpose, and leg it into the lighting department where I hide for twelve hours, next to some desklamps called, I think, Arse.