Well thursday night, (St Patricks Day) went off with out a hitch, though the faux Irishness of it all I found faintly disturbing. I now own a giant inflatable pint of guiness and a matching T-shirt which was my uniform for the night itself (but remember folks: Order your guinness FIRST in future!).
Yesterday I was awoken by a phone call from the amusingly named Joy Ryde (Katie’s mum) who wanted to check on arrangements for Thailand and give me travel advice. I’m also thinking of shelling out on an new pair of trainers for my trip.
My friends Claire and Fozzie get married next week, so I trekked down to Ikea with Foz to help out (after a breakfast consisting of tea and biscuits and a slice of toast). The warrington Ikea is arranged a bit like Plato’s heaven (to use another philosophy analogy). The upper floor is a showroom that contains The Ideal Sofa, The Ideal bookshelf, The Ideal Kitchen Unit etc, the Forms from wich the things in the real world derive their properties. The ground floor contains the flat pack furniture which, you, the consumer then buys and has to assemble.
First we wandered through catacombs made of bedroom furniture dimly lit by the suffuse glow of book lights and across islands of furniture generica, looking for a desk top and bookshelf that Foz wanted for their new flat. We broke the Swedish efficiency by taking wrong turns and back tracking, but finally found what we were looking for. Then we had to venture into the real world of flat packs, locate what we were looking for and then (to use an easter analogy) walked across the warehouse floor and car park with the flatpacks slung around our shoulders like some semi disposable MDF stations of the cross.
The rest of the afternoon was spent assembling the furniture.