IKEA rules

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There’s a plant that sits in the middle of our dining table. I like it. It’s a green and red sticky outy, affair - you can tell I know a lot about horticulture - and it’s in a pretty wee plant pot that looks like it could have come from IKEA, when IKEA was cool.

Way back when dinosaurs roamed the earth and Mark and I were setting up house together, we used to visit that veritable Swedish Shangri-La a couple of times a month. As did everyone else, it seemed.

In those days in Blighty, Ikea was very, very popular. In fact, at one point, they opened a new superstore in North London, and the police had to be called because there was a riot - an actual riot - over who could nab the cut-price sofas.

We never fought anyone for a sofa there, or anything else for that matter. But because it could periodically get unreasonably busy, with a whole lot of random shopping cart dithering, and check out shuffling, we developed what we call IKEA rules: When shopping, if either of us felt there was too much dithering or douchebaggery, we would simply say “IKEA rules” and we’d both leave right away empty handed, no questions asked.

It’s incredibly effective. Though I may have periodically wanted to lamp someone in a Trader Joe’s parking lot, I’ve never found anyone remotely upsetting at IKEA. Because as it turns out, it’s possible to handle a lot more douchebaggery than you think, when you know you can leave at any time.

We’ve used IKEA rules at parties and events and all sorts of stuff. In fact, in some ways, IKEA might have helped us stay married.

Anyway, the wee plant in the middle of our dining table isn’t actually from IKEA, but I still did think about it when visiting the Scandinavian Utopia this week.

Two friends brought us the plant when they came round for dinner at the beginning of January. It had been lovely to catch up with them as they live out of state. We ate too much food, and talked about how the holidays had been, and discussed life, the Universe, and everything, occasionally dropping into the topic of what a clusterfuck the world currently is.

My tall friend was thrilled when I introduced him to the delights of a wee individual trifle. So much he ate 2. He laughed tucking into his first one, commenting, “What is this magical food, and why have I never heard of it before?” He’d been going through some health stuff, but had gotten his appetite back. This year was going to be his year. I promised the next time he visited, I’d make him an enormous trifle all to himself.

His husband, my wee pal, was exhausted after the holiday season. I told him he needed to rest. He agreed that he would, and we would catch up again soon. When they left, I cleared up, and put the wee plant in the middle of the table. It’s such a happy, perky wee thing, and it looked like it was always meant to be there.

IKEA felt different this week than it used to. It wasn’t that busy really. Maybe it’s due to the global enshittification of everything with automated checkouts and the general cheapening of products, but the Scandinavian Xanadu is no longer the force it used to be.

Or maybe it was just that Mark and I have changed. We’re less of the ‘setting up house’ stage of life, and much more in the ‘no more clutter taking up space’ stage.

Or maybe it was just my mood.

Ten days after my friends flew home in January, I got a message saying my tall friend had suddenly taken seriously ill. And just like that, all their plans for the future had changed.

Over the past two months, my wee pal has been moving heaven and earth to save his husband's life. There has been no greater fighter.

But Nature will always take what is hers. And on Thursday, my tall friend died.

And as I told Mark the news, the wee plant they brought me sat on the dining room table, looking like nothing at all had changed.

So Mark and I went to IKEA because when my heart feels sore, I don't like talking. And I'd called and left a message with my wee pal, so there was nothing else to do. And so wandering around and picking up dishcloths and scented candles and daft gadgets you-had-no-idea-you-even-need-until-you-see-them seemed like the best idea.

And that's what I was doing when my wee pal called me back. I answered the phone wanting to not be upset. He has been dealing with all of this on his own. He has been through way too much. He is hundreds of miles away, so I can't even offer him a cuddle. I wanted to listen. I wanted to be strong for my lovely wee pal who was surely walking through the worst day of his life.

And, standing in soft furnishings, I managed. Mostly. Till I opened my mouth to talk and my voice wobbled. So then I had to stop talking. And just be quiet. And my wee pal told me it was ok, because he'd been crying too. And my heart fucking broke that even in the middle of the worst of times for my wee pal, he still could offer kindness to me. And we both cried and talked about some practical stuff nobody ever wants to talk about, while some lady on the tannoy talked about how they had an offer on some smorgasbord, and that now it's possible to take your frozen meatballs home.

After that, Mark and I adapted our IKEA rules. Because we were both upset, we carried on shopping. It was better to potter about and do something meaningless than think about anything else. It was better to focus on the durability of dishcloths than to wonder how we would handle it were one of us to be left on this journey. But there was nothing we really wanted or needed, so I bought some scented candles and some napkins we may never use, and Mark picked up some kitchen gadget that will clutter up a drawer for a couple of years.

And we brought our stuff back home, where a perky, sticky-out plant, in the pretty wee plant pot, sits in the middle of the dining room table. As a reminder of how irreplaceable time spent with those you care for, really is.

Lynn

Xo

PS: Every time you click on the wee heart emoji, a random object in IKEA finds a new home. Also my algorithm rubs its belly with the satisfaction that only a wee individual trifle can bring.

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IKEA rules - Audio