The Ikea catalogue arrived today: please please we will now see no more of those letterbox-cleaning TV ads repeated from last year. It is the lowest form of wit to make jokes about Ikea product names like Jerker, Fukta, Fartfull and Lyckhem. Perhaps company founder Ingvar Kamprad makes jokes about WA’s eccentric retail trading laws, which mean his enormous shop in Innaloo is packed on Saturdays but empty the day after. I’m sure the SA shop on Sir Donald Bradman Drive is thronged every day of the week, and no doubt famous Swedish people can buy what they want at midnight.
But the 376-page thing caused me angst: the bookshelves weren’t in the Workspaces chapter. The Billys and the Expedits turned up in Living Room, after coffee tables. Don’t get me wrong: I am no Ikea-boy seeking my erotic gratification. Nor was I wanting to have an extra-diegetic moment. I like inspecting the books on the shelves. How many copies of Find The Love of Your Life After 50 do you need in one claustrophobic space? Six, it seems: “We imagined what would happen if six friends decided to live together in 40 square metres.” What would happen? Prison riot.
I do admire, however, their retention of their umlauts, and those little circles above the As. It is almost enough to forgive them for their break-even hotdogs.
How long before I can turn on the fucking TV and watch the footy?