Robert McNeil: At Ikea, even a simpleton can feel like a practical man

Published on Wednesday 15 July 2009 15:41

THIS week's topic is one which I know will put you through the full gamut of emotions. I don't often speak to you about matters of the heart. Love is a private thing. But there comes a time when we should all talk to each other, and share the splendour and joy of our ardour. With all that in mind, I wish to talk to you this weekend about my garden bench.

What? Where are you going? What did you think I meant? I love my bench deeply, madly, passionately. I feel comfortable between its strong, supportive arms, and appreciate very much the way in which it holds my bottom.

To be honest, I had not thought the joy of a bench could be so intense. Mistakenly, I'd believed the project of acquiring one merely a functional matter. But once my bench was up and standing, with me sitting on it with not a care in the world, I was overcome with the sheer pleasure that is only afforded to the simpleton or, should I say, the man of simple tastes. You prefer simpleton? All right, fair enough.

I intend sparing you no detail about the acquisition and construction of the bench, nor of the sociological aspects inherent in its presence, so you may want to have a good book handy: just hide the book behind the magazine, and people will think you're reading an interesting and informative article about a bench, while you're really thrilling to Bungalow of Terror or The Dromedary from Hell.

First, then, the acquisition of the bench. It took many months, of course, largely taken up with mature and responsible dithering and the usual confusion about why everyone but me could afford things. I hunted on the internet and looked in garden centres but, inevitably, the man of taste finds his choice beyond the limits of fiscal decency. The cheapest aesthetically acceptable bench cost 150. You say: "That is not a large sum of money. Are you a skinflint, Rabbie, or what?" And I say: "The answer to your impertinent query is: what? There's a recession on, you know. And if we want the recession to continue, we should stop buying goods frivolously."

There came a point when I parked the bench concept at the rear of my mind, an area already crowded with planned novels, treatises on existentialist embroidery, and ideas about running away to become a Buddhist monk (great life, apart from the Buddhism). Then, one day, I took myself – well, no- one else would take me – to Mr Ikea the carpenter and, as I waddled towards his hallowed portals, I was struck. No, not by an irate reader. By the sight of a bench, with this impressive price tag: 49. I liked the design, the size, everything. Futhermore, I've become quite good at erecting Ikea things now, making me feel like a practical man, even if one who relies heavily on cartoon instructions.

I entered the shop, demanded to see the manager and, in no time at all, was manhandling an inevitably massive package into my trusty Focus. I'm amazed that one sees so few fatalities or serious injuries at Mr Ikea's. Being trendy Scandinavians, they have a get-it-yourself approach, which in my view is inferior to the traditional British method of having other people carry things. Anyway, by welding off the back door and throwing away the rear seats, I managed to bludgeon the package into the car.

Safe home, in the back garden, I had it up in less than an hour, as the actress told the bishop, and had coated it with protective glaze. Next morning, I admired my handywork. The amazing thing about the bench was you could sit on it and everything. Something actually worked! Normally, everything I touch ends with the crashing sounds of disaster. But this thing stayed up.

It was just great sitting in it. Hitherto, I'd always had to stand in the back garden, something that I look back on now as a memory of hell. The bench sits against the back wall of the house. In front of me, I can admire my slug-chewed strawberries and watch the tops of my little trees peacefully swaying. No-one can see me, except the CIA's spy satellites overhead.

Spot the blackbird has completely deserted me now – no novelty there – but, that first morning, he came down and perched on the arm of the bench, occasionally nipping down to the seat proper to pinch my toast.

My bench and I shall grow old together. It will always be there for me. True, I don't kiss it as much as I used to, but we are comfortable together. We never argue. In October, we are going on a Mediterranean cruise.