Ikea Should Come With A Health Warning

So, a few weekends ago I decided that I desperately needed to put up some shelves in my office. Emergency shelves. I was so desperate for some shelves that I decided that the next day the Fiance and I would make an emergency Ikea trip to purchase the emergency shelves before the world collapsed around me in a shelf-less mess.

So Sunday arrives and we find ourselves in Ikea Milton Keynes. As this was the second Sunday after New Year, everyone else also found themselves in Milton Keynes, looking for emergency shelves, emergency boxes, emergency Tupperware, every kind of emergency storage you can think of.

I had, perhaps naively, assumed that the average set of 6 shelves would set you back about 20-30 quid. after all, it's just a bit of wood and two brackets - surely £5 a piece is an average price for this in a place like Ikea, where they produce enough wood in a day to build an ark? But no. Eighty quid lighter, and after numerous debates about what KIND of shelf I'm looking for (I personally thought the clue would be in the word "emergency", as in, "I want to go in, buy a bit of wood and leave, sharpish") I eventually ended up with a rustic looking shelving unit.

Whenever the Fiance and I pop to Ikea we always go for a mooch around the "Bargain Corner". and thus far we've managed to find many things to spend money on that we would not have otherwise spent money on (Damn you, Ikea!) and this visit was no exception. Before we left Ikea we managed to not only buy emergency shelves, but we also bought the LARGEST wardrobe I have EVER SEEN.

Now, the Fiance does not drive a small car. It's not an estate, but I know for a fact that two grown adults can have a nap in the boot with the seats down at 4 am in a service station. I also know that it's bloody FREEZING - but it is possible.

I can also tell you that you should never, ever buy a large set of emergency shelving and a colossal wardrobe at the same time. It didn't help that it was raining buckets and the wind kept trying to blow the giant wardrobe into someone else's boot. While it was closed.

Eventually, after more swearing than I've ever heard in my life (and I saw Peter Capaldi in "The Thick Of It"!) the Fiance finally managed to get the boxes into the car. Looking pleased with himself, he gets into the car (which we'd parked temporarily in a nearby disabled bay as the packing of the car would take "five minutes" and it was closer to the door so we'd be in and out in NO time. 45 minutes later...) while I return the trolley.

When I return I get in the car, at which point the Fiance says, "You're going to have to do the handbrake and gears, I can't reach!" I look down and sure enough, the Giant Wardrobe is blocking him from any use of the handbrake. I look up and realise that I also can't  SEE him. He's just a voice coming from no where. "Are you OK with that?" Comes his muffled voice. I quickly realise that I have to be OK with that, as if I am not OK with that one of us has to get out of the car and wait to be collected at a later date, and that "someone" is me. And it is raining. Inside the car there are heated seats. Outside the car there is a hurricane.

Mind made up, I say, "Just tell me which gear you want it in and leave the rest to me".

An hour later, I'm not entirely sure how we made it home alive. I assume the trauma has made me blank the whole thing from my memory, although I have flash backs of a muffled voice yelling "FOURTH....FIFTH!" and going around many, many roundabouts.

After arriving home, the Giant Wardrobe stayed at the bottom of the stairs, where it remained for the next week. The bookcase was assembled and full long before the wardrobe made it upstairs.

Eventually, we decided to get the wardrobe assembled. There were four large, heavy boxes that eventually made it up the stairs, and in Box One were the instructions. To my horror I realised that there were 64 steps to this monstrosity. I saw hours and hours of work ahead of me, with no end in sight. The Fiance, on the other hand, takes one look at it and proclaims, "We'll have this up in an hour!". I think the shock must have temporarily made him lose his mind.

So, how many steps do you think we made it through before The Almighty Ikea-Related Row began? I'm sure you know the one. It's the row that every couple is obliged to have. It can happen on the way into Ikea; simply because you have to go, During Ikea; when one of you leaves the other for dead in the children's section, after Ikea; when you're trying to fit the bastard wardrobe in the car or during the Ikea Comedown; when you're trying to build that beautiful TV cabinet you bought and one of you accidentally puts the hammer through one of the side panels.

This row was the Ikea Comedown Row. We lasted 13 steps before it hit. It was like a storm that had been brewing for some time, it was fast and it was ANGRY and it was about what way up the drawer runners go.

It was days before we could face going back in and finishing the wardrobe. Flinching at every mention of the words "Flat-pack" and "Screwdriver".

Eventually though, we put on our big girl knickers and got down to it. Hours later (it DEFINITELY didn't take an hour!) we re-emerged - tired, but victorious.

Ikea, you lose.