Tuesday June 12, 2007
To IKEA. Well, it’s a dirty job but someone has to do it.
It was a looney trip from the very start. I had to tank the car up first. It’s a rule of mine. Never start out on a road trip without a full tank of fuel and an empty bladder.
So our first and only stop on the way was at the filling station outside Sainsbury’s. I was standing there, filling up, dreaming, trying to ignore the pace at which the price dial was going up, when Graham leaned his head out of the window and said: “That van over there is leaking.”
“Oh dear. So it is. Punctured fuel tank, it looks like. You’d better toddle off and tell the staff.”
Long and short of it was they shut the station down immediately, pausing only to let me pay for my fuel, and then they all donned yellow emergency jackets, called the fire brigade, and settled in for a jolly good panic.
“I’m so sorry,” Graham said to the woman with the red/purple hair that really didn’t go with her yellow emergency jacket. “I seem to have spoiled your day before it even started.”
“Don’t worry love,” she said. “A break from routine is just what the doctor ordered.”
And so we set off in the direction of Bristol as the peal of fire engine bells grew in the distance.
“I think we ought to take that as our theme for the day. Mayhem, silliness, and a swift exit.”
“Sounds like a recipe for fun.”
It was too. Not a major trip, just a few bits to keep Graham’s project going, along with a new baking tray for me. Graham was delighted to find a couple of pieces of oak-veneered hardboard in the ‘help yourself for free’ pile, custom-made to finish off his new wardrobe project. I was delighted to find that they’ve restored the size of the breakfast to the maximum after a small price rise. Like all other similar things, the IKEA breakfast diminishes in size as the price of components increases and then, when they can’t sensibly reduce the portion size any further, takes a leap to the top of the curve once more after a recosting exercise. A bit like life, really, is the recosting/portion sizing cycle of the IKEA breakfast.
We got home in good time for a late lunch and siesta, still in good humour and giggling all the way. No space or time for serious things or deep thoughts today.
“Shame they don’t sell hostess trolleys,” I said, apropos of nothing whatever.
“What are you on about now?”
“Oh, you know. Victoria Wood and all that.”
“Ah. They don’t sell Women’s Weekly, either.”
“No need to let that stop you.”
The author, webmaster, and minder of the cat