Minnen

I have a scandalous confession to make: I really rather adore Ikea. Is that too awful? Do you think it makes me a bad person?

In a world where the kind of bed I had visualised for Finleys first, costs upward of £500.00, it is scrumptiously wonderful to find an extendable, perfectly formed, not overly designed copy for just £89.00 (including mattress) at this mecca to all that is Swedish, useful and occasionally strange. So we bought it.

Don’t get me wrong: I am not about to accessorise every wall with a Billy Bookcase or serve meatballs every night. I don’t want the rest of Ikea’s ugly and apparently ubiqtuous  childrens range, nor feel the urge to buy those funny little £2.00 orange lamps the world and it’s wife have apparently been seduced by. But I like it all the same.

I, like everyone  else who couldn’t afford Cath Kidston at the time, bought metres and metres of Ikea Rosali fabric, and I will confess to coveting an Alvine Bukett quilt set. The closet minamalist inside me like’s the simplicity of some of their furniture and occasionally I go a bit silly in the kitchenware aisle. But to my vintage self’s horror, I am seriously considering buying one of those very ugly computer desks, simply because I just can’t find a better solution to  the copius wires,  and plugs needed to accomodate a scanner, laptop, printer, digital camera etc, along with all the assorted paraphenalia required to run BrocanteHome- and I’ve got to say that such an urge has shaken me to the core…

So is the worm for turning? I  shouldn’t think so: the sheer inconvenience of having to build a flatpack anything makes me feel ill. Our poor Finley will probably still be in his cot when he is twelve…