I have a scandalous confession to make: I really rather adore Ikea. Is that too awful? Do you think it makes me a bad person?
In a world where the kind of bed I had visualised for Finleys first, costs upward of £500.00, it is scrumptiously wonderful to find an extendable, perfectly formed, not overly designed copy for just £89.00 (including mattress) at this mecca to all that is Swedish, useful and occasionally strange. So we bought it.
Don’t get me wrong: I am not about to accessorise every wall with a Billy Bookcase or serve meatballs every night. I don’t want the rest of Ikea’s ugly and apparently ubiqtuous childrens range, nor feel the urge to buy those funny little £2.00 orange lamps the world and it’s wife have apparently been seduced by. But I like it all the same.
I, like everyone else who couldn’t afford
So is the worm for turning? I shouldn’t think so: the sheer inconvenience of having to build a flatpack anything makes me feel ill. Our poor Finley will probably still be in his cot when he is twelve…