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.

The Badly Chosen Boyfriend and the Pizza Incident

We all do it. We all have that boyfriend/girlfriend in our past that, when we deign to think about them, we think, "Why the hell did I ever consider them as date-worthy material? Was I temporarily brain damaged? Was I being controlled by aliens?"

My first long-term boyfriend was possibly the worst person I could have ever chosen to date.

I’m not saying he wasn’t a nice person – he was in fact the opposite. He was quite self-centred, but on the whole wouldn’t harm a fly.

The reason he was so terrible a choice for me is because we were so completely and utterly incompatible. I found him boring, irritating, selfish, immature and he had no loyalty whatsoever.

We used to have conversations and I’d find, on later trying, that I could not recall a single word he said. He was interested in History (Yawn), Politics (Kill me) and creative writing (about history and politics. Dear GOD).

I, however, at the grand old age of 18/19 was interested in design, reading (not about history or politics) and having fun.

Emotionally, I was far more mature than he was, despite his being about 3 years older than I, and I was less inclined to live by everyone else’s rules than he was. I would get frustrated with the fact that he would never do anything without saying things like, “my Dad says it should be done this way” or “My friends say I should do this”.

I was far more likely to take other people’s advice on board and then choose the method I thought best, rather than what everyone else thought best.

The Bad Choice Boyfriend was such a stickler for doing it the way you are told and not straying from the instructions that we ended up having the worst argument of my life over a pizza.

I had come home from work at Vision Express one evening, knowing that the BCB was cooking for us, and when I got home he suggested pizza. As I do have a bit of a penchant for pizza I happily agreed, and off he popped to the shop over the road to grab a Chicago Town. Upon arrival back he started reading the instructions, and I warned him to NOT put the pizza on the top oven shelf, as I know that our oven got too hot and it would burn before it cooked. I immediately stopped paying attention and went back to doing whatever it was I was doing before he returned.

BCB joined me, but within 10 minutes I could smell burning.

“You need to check the pizza, something’s burning,” I warned.

“Nah, it’ll be something on the bottom of the oven,” he replies, and remains where he is for a further 5 minutes, while I fidget and panic about my food, but decide to remain where I am and not “take control” as I was often accused of doing.

After checking on the pizza he exclaims, “The pizza is burnt!” to which I replied, “Did you put it on the top shelf, or the middle one?”

“The top one, like the instructions told me to.”

I pointed out that I had warned him not to put it on the top shelf, and explained that I had told him that due to prior experience with our oven – it was a fan oven and the instructions were for conventional ovens.

He decided to go back to the shop and purchase a new pizza.

Attempt two of cooking the pizza went down in exactly the same way – BCB was not one for learning from his mistakes, and this time, instead of calmly explaining WHY the pizza had burnt, as I had the first time, I was pissed off. “How could you possibly manage to burn ONE pizza, let alone TWO?!?” I screech at him, incensed. “It’s not fucking ROCKET SCIENCE, it’s a FUCKING PIZZA!!!”

“Well, I’m SORRY. But I was just FOLLOWING THE INSTRUCTIONS like you’re SUPPOSED TO!” he yells back.

“FINE, I’ll COOK THE BLOODY PIZZA THEN!” I continue to screech.

“NO, I’m QUITE capable of cooking a SHITTING PIZZA, thanks.” He replies, and storms out, back to the shop to purchase their last mighty meaty.

Christ knows what the shop owners thought about our pizza eating habits.

BCB returns armed with the mighty meaty and shooting daggers at me like it’s my fault that he’s a complete moron.

I have turned to my common state where I am so frustrated and enraged by his incompetence that I am incapable of actually speaking to the boy and therefore completely ignore his presence.

The pizza successfully makes it into the oven, this time he assures me that it is NOT on the top shelf, so my anger wanes a little bit. I know he’s not doing it on purpose, and he really can’t seem to help himself when it comes to following instructions, so I relax a little and begin an awkward attempt at reconciliation.

After about 10 minutes he goes into the kitchen, refusing my offer to do it for him with irritation, and returns after fiddling about a bit and deciding that all was well. He reassures me that the pizza is looking healthy and will be ready to eat soon, rather smugly.

After five minutes he goes back to the oven, and suddenly all I can hear from him is, “SHITTING BOLLOCKING BLOODY PIZZA!!!”

I turn on the sofa, almost in slow motion, and I see BCB holding what looks like a black Frisbee in front of him. Apparently he had decided that the pizza was not cooking fast enough on the middle shelf, and during the brief “checking on the pizza” interval, had once again moved it onto the top shelf, which explained his earlier smugness.

Naturally, I flipped out. I have never been so filled with rage, before or since. All I wanted was a bloody pizza. I would have settled for ANY pizza at this stage – even one with anchovies on it.

I was incapable of speech for about 60 seconds, and then when I managed to make a sound it was a high pitched shrieking noise that could only be heard by small dogs and rodents.

I think it was on that day that I realised I was dating someone who was quite possibly mentally handicapped. There is no other explanation as to how someone managed to burn a pizza -

Not once,

Not twice,

But THREE TIMES.