Never again. I will never attempt to put together an Ikea wardrobe again.
Ever. I wanted to have it delivered, I wanted to pay the delivery people to assemble it, but no, Youngest Child persuaded me we could do it ourselves. She said it would be fun.
By this point I’d been in Ikea for five hours and had lost my sanity down the back of a Friheten sofa-bed. I would have agreed to anything; a puppy, Disneyland, the boys throwing a party and announcing it on Twitter.
“Oh, go on then,” I said. “How hard can it be?”
Back home, there were stormings out, throwing away of vital pieces in a rage, subsequent retrieval of the same vital pieces in an even greater rage, insults, expletives and tears. Then finally, after three days, the same time it took me to push out Eldest Child, I ram the last drawer home, lie on the floor sweating, and spew forth a final vile cascade of venomous oaths.
Later, when we we’re on speaking terms again, Youngest and I lie on her bed, contemplating the misnamed PAX wardrobe. I say, “Not a bad job after all.”
She sniffs. “Those weren’t nice things for a child to hear,” she says.
“I’m sorry. But next time, let’s just pay someone to do it.”
“OK. It’s brilliant mum. Thank you.”
“Yes, and it’ll be even better when we get the doors on.”