It came today.It arrived in my postbox all flat and untorn.
No, not the latest Keyes, Friedman or Blackwood, but a tome whose pages are designed to bring purely harmonised joy; a type of joy that blurred the fact that it would be another five whole days until my next two days off. I loved my Ikea catalogues, and in a mostly plutonic way, the catalogues loved me back. The mostly stood for the one time I was a single screw short of assembling my Nistrom of a bookshelf. But despite the mutual attraction, my house was still a fair way off from being completely Ikeafied. The kitchen came closest with the dishrack, chopping board, tea towels, plates, knifes and forks all matching in their Swedish made in China origins. The bathroom had its own set of striped mats, striped shower curtain, extendable mirror and turtle nail brush, not forgetting the slim cabinet where my moisturising collection lived (and grew). The bedroom was getting there with its glass wardrobes, lonely queen sized bed and long-necked reading lamps, and last but definitely not least was the lounge room. It had been infected to the point of coming down with a retro carpet, two silver stemmed lights and a large space where my latest acquisition was going to live. At the moment it was renting on page thirty-five in all its faux leather glory. It was sleek and grey with slender silver legs and was proud to be called Verspankit. I could see myself lounging between its comfyness as I snuggled in for a quiet night alone; just me and a book and an endless supply of hot chocolate. Then again I could quite easily fall for the real deal – a black plush couch that was once made from animals (but only the smelly biting kind) that was otherwise known as Verkumalot. The bonus here being that there would even be room for a significant other body of warmth to share the pillows and still not get in the way.
Now if only Ikea sold men that matched their furniture!
The fabulously verfunky Ms M.
