You've got to be cruel... to un-wind

When your down and lonely, sometimes the misfortune of others can really be a source of relief and mirth. This is especially true when their misfortune is brought about by your own direct influence.

SRO

What was to be another enjoyable early turn changed to a potentially more perilous tour of duty in what basically equates to the reception area of Kingston’s second P station.

I arrived set for the day with both my lap top comp and portable DVD player. You must understand, I didn’t know we had a second P station until I was transferred to work there so why should any unsuspecting member of the public?

Simple yet funny

Due to the influx of visitors I didn't manage to watch any DVD’s but instead discovered a new way to keep myself entertained.

The entrance door to the front counter that I sat behind for the day is a simple affair. It consists of a normal door made from metal frames and two transparent glass panel sections. It can be opened by the MOP pushing the door once the door release button has been pressed on the P side.

This would appear not to be general knowledge and thus followed my enjoyment.

MOP’s that wished to gain access adopted one of two approaches. These consisted of either

Walking up to the door until they were almost touching it and then standing feet planted to the floor swaying from left to right attempting to trigger the “laser” to the sensor that opened the door.

OR

Approaching the door at a speed that is almost a quick run and meet the glass of the door with your face like a fly would a windscreen on the fast lane of the M1; before taking two steps backwards and trying this approach again.

Once their stupidity became obvious I toyed with their simple little minds further by ushering them through the door prior to pressing the door release button.

There then ensued a hilarious spell of them furiously pushing and pulling at the door whilst I goaded them further with shouts of “just push it” and “it’s open, try it now”

Once I had laughed until I felt decidedly nauseous I then let them in closely followed with a bemused look and a comment of “that door’s been playing up all day.”

Another satisfying day's work.

IKEA - the land of dreams

Having already explained my current domestic situation, i.e. an new house, I felt it necessary to furnish my boudoir with a variety of stylish and sexy articles of furniture. Unfortunately, I have neither the monetary funds nor the critical eye of an interior designer. I therefore opted to head for Ikea to buy copious amounts of wooden panels that apparently should look like a four poster bed or an eighteenth century mock Tudor courtyard with hanging water garden.

Ikea, I am reliably informed, stands for either Swedish haut couture or ha-ha you are missing a screw, I am yet to find an authentic Swedishian who can verify this though.

I arrived fresh faced and ready to purchase my many wares that consisted of various obscurely titled items like a frying pan called Skanker or a bed sheet by the name Tupplur.

The bedroom furniture I so earnestly desired was all known by the name Malm.

A simple yet stylish design that had a chunky look and feel to it; and also came in a rather nice oak finish.

I must at this point inform you that I was in the company of Briggsy. A crucial cog in this story machine as you will discover later.

Showrooms

For all those of you that have never experienced the pleasure that is Ik-yeah (which I'm reliably informed is the phonetic spelling of the stores name) it really is a steep and deeply enjoyable learning curve, or not.

You enter into a bright yellow and blue coloured building with a deceptively named information desk and a large wood paneled staircase that appears to lead to heaven. As I headed for the staircase, a slight flicker of movement attracted my attention in the very outer reaches of my peripheral vision. As I turned to look I still swear to this day I caught a glimpse of a partially blood stained member of staff being hauled back into the recesses of the disabled toilets by a disgruntled shopper.

In the upper section above the whole of the rest of the store are what I believe are referred to as the showrooms. Within these richly decorated and well fashioned suggestions it is made to appear that all of the furniture on sale can be built and positioned in such a splendid way that your life will fill complete.

Lulled into a false sense of security by this seemingly possible venture, I wandered around the showroom area selecting the many wonderful items I wished to purchase whilst my newly employed scribe (Briggsy) hurriedly attempted to record the exact dimensions, product code and price. Briggsy did well and was able to transcribe everything I excitedly squealed in her direction. I soon had a sizeable and selective list of all that my Milky little heart desired. All I merely had to do now was descend to the lower depths and purchase their wares.

How far from the actual truth this really is will fast become evident when you enter the seedy underbelly of the Ikea shopping experience.

The Marketplace

As you ride the escalator down the brightly lit well stocked shelves suggests a friendly and inviting shopping experience.

Surrounded by other oblivious shoppers I soon discovered that many of the product names are mildly un-nerving

Krusti - Bed sheets
Alergi - Duvet covers
Skid - Towels
Durtee - Throws
Soild - Cutlery
Smeer - Tea towels
Krakd - Mirrors
Wonke - Frames
Dedd - Plants
Slutt - Beds
Burnd - Candles

and so on...

Beyond the Marketplace

Having had to circumnavigate the Marketplace area and all it's pretty shiny things that everyone must own (but not actually know what they do); I emerged into a warehouse. This is the filthy dirty core where the real battles are won and lost.

I was closely followed by a small figure eagerly clutching a bag of 7,490 tea light candles and roughly 17 plants. I was able to work out from the shoes they were wearing that it was Briggsy. I parted the foliage to find a Briggsy grinning from ear to ear uncertain of where she was shuffling but not really all that bothered.

After having had to collect her neatly scribed list of my required bedroom accoutrements from her pocket (as she no longer possessed an empty to hand to do this herself) I began to attempt to find my furniture.

Shortly after this attempt began I soon realised that there was one vital piece of information that I had absent mindedly forgotten to record. The fecking aisle number each piece of furniture was stored in.

And so began the long trek up and down every oddly numbered aisle that appeared to be ordered via the Fibonacci sequence rather than the traditional 1,2,3 etc.

Once I had managed to find three empty spaces where my lovely oak wardrobes and drawers should have been I decided to seek professional help.

I use this term loosely as I did in fact have to ask a member of staff.

I began this attempt at the desk in the rear of the store where lots of other happy people were walking away with numerous boxes of various flat packed items. How hard can it be, thought I.

I waited my turn and when finally the masses had parted I was able to approach and feebly pass the assistant my scrappy hand scribbled list as I noted that all those round me had fresh printed inventories of the wares they wished for.

Oh balls.

I realised I had made a faux pas moments before the man in the yellow top said

"Where's your order form?"

"I.. er.. I don't have one" (quietly restraining myself against the overriding wish to finish my reply with either Sorry or Sir).

"You need an order form mate."

There came my reply

"Okay-sorry-bye"

As I fled the glaring looks of all those so much more intelligent than I.

I scanned the open plan shop floor in search of where to get me one of those printed lists until my eye fell upon a gaggle of people by something called..

The "Help" Desk

This desk may have been titled in reference to the staff or it may have been titled in regard to what they are meant to do, either way whomever I spoke to there was chuffing useless.

Firstly upon approach I noted a traditional British queue. I duly joined the end and attempted to avoid kicking the nearby simpletons children who insisted on trying to pull on my trouser legs.

I was close to being served/helped/stared at by a dribbling moron when to my dismay and slight embarrassment I was queue-jumped by two eighty five year old women. I did think of mentioning that there was a queue, but felt it would be petty as there was no-one else stood behind me.

Imagine my dismay when two more groups of people began to queue behind the blue rinsed twosome. Fortunately for me the 14 year old spotty till operator noticed my feeble plight and ushered me to the till prior to them.

I introduced myself as a shopper and explained that all the items I wished to buy were out of stock. This turned out to be my first of many mistakes. He explained to me that I required the product code for each item before he could check they had it in stock.

Having been banished from the Help Desk until I had such information, I returned to the aisles seeking what I needed, with Briggsy skipping along gayly behind me.

Once I had collected the nine digit product code for all of them I returned to the Help desk, queued up again and happily produced my scribbled scraps of paper.

There followed a brief wait whilst the "Helper" blindly bashed the keys of the computer in front of him. He then produced a lovely fresh printed list of the items I needed so desperately and directed me towards the delivery desk.

The same desk I had already been banished from earlier.

I happily sauntered over to the desk proudly wafting my crisp new list in whomever's face got to close. As I re-introduced myself to the flat pack fraternity I recognised a lot of familiar faces.

There, slumped and slouched all around the desk were the same people I had seen half an hour before when I had first wrongly come to this section.

It was then I noticed behind the clerks head was a hand scrawled waiting time - 1HR 20.

Realising I had only two hours to get too work, there then ensued a mind wrestling 10 minutes where I attempted to work out if I could possibly make it. Until in one dramatic gesture I lost my rag, threw my toys out the pram and stormed off in a huff.

Only to find I had to wait for Briggsy to purchase the incredible number of things that filled her two most important requirements in life: - it must be green OR it must burn. (NB the day someone designs a fir tree shaped candle is the day Briggsy goes bankrupt).

The Result

I exited the store with nothing, not even my dignity. Briggsy exited the store arms laden with candles and plants.

The Conclusion

I succeeded in humiliating myself in front of various social dross and wasted an estimated two hours and forty five minutes of my life.

However...

I returned the next day at opening time and bought all my furniture and got it home delivered within one hour!

The moral of this story.. I'm not certain if there is one.. Ah yes I know

"Always make sure you check what items are contained within your flat pack furniture"

p.s. don't suppose anyone's got some spare wardrobe handles knocking about?
Getting to my clothes is a real pain in the posterior.

What the web was made for

Stumbling through the internet I came across this link on a creative American guy's blog, it's a music video for a song called JCB by a band named Nizlopi.

This video is bliss.

Well worth bookmarking for a rainy day.

(unfortunately its best viewed on a broadband connection)

A Great Park of British Life

On occasion, words are not required.

I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.

# contented sigh #

Enjoy, as I did.