IKEA.

Went to the Swedish store today to pick up a few bits I’d ordered online. Here it’s not really a shop at all, just a place to collect goods sent from Mallorca, and a tiny showroom across the range. This picture shows three quarters of that space.
I used to go back to the homeland for visits 2-3 times a year before it transformed into Brexsh*t plague island, and although the highlights were seeing family and friends and the latest wonders to be seen in Liverpool and other points north, another must-do was the Ikea Experience. Lots of happy memories there of when the kids were little and could be entertained in the kids section and stuffed with meatballs in the restaurant. Later on, a 20-something younger daughter taking me on a perilous wheelchair ride through the aisles and taking a nap in a big metal bin full of pillows. More recently, going there with elder daughter to enjoy tea and cakes in the semi-hidden upstairs cafe. I remember getting crockery and pans there for firstborn when he left to go to university, and again for secondborn because she wanted new things rather than his castoffs. I ought to be more like her. Going alone was also an indulgent treat; taking as long as I liked to people watch, amass a trolley full of impulse buys (who can resist the Plant of the Week, scented tealights, arty bric-a-brac, synthetic flowers and yet more picture frames?). The people-watching, while avoiding the noisy undiscipled kids, could be bittersweet. I’d see a young couple planning how to furnish their first house together, and feel a frisson of envy as I’d never been in a position to do that, each house we lived in providing some left-behind furniture which though not great, was too good to throw out when money was tight. Even today I’m living with previous occupants’ leftovers, although part of my order today was some new handles for the kitchen cupboards, a small gesture to try to make them mine. I felt a bit distressed about throwing away the previous perfectly good handles, but have resolved that by deciding to take them to a charity shop. Most of my problem stems from growing up at a time when frugality was the norm, and necessary. Nothing was ever wasted or just thrown away. Mum made our clothes and would mend, alter or repurpose them into something else, finally ending up in rag rugs which she made on a canvas frame.
Here ends the trip down memory lane, triggered by something as mundane as being in a shop which ought by rights, but doesn’t, sell ice cream and hot dogs by the exit.