As I haven’t written much here recently, my regular readership has probably dwindled to the level where it’s unlikely that anyone will remember, still less care about, our experiences with Ikea. Although they ended on something of a cliffhanger, the whole story is hardly so exciting that any other than the most obsessive fans are still awaiting a resolution.
For them, then: the furniture arrived, and thus far seems fine. Astonishingly, the delivery staff did turn out to be insured to, you know, deliver heavy things. So either the staff in the Ikea store were lying to the customers, or the company using Ikea’s brand is a bunch of cheapskates who only insure just the handful of staff they really, really have to. I’m not sure which is more detrimental to Ikea.
The delivery men were still patronising workies, of course: you can’t insure against that (we tried.) They propped the heavy flatpack bed against a wall—which you’re not meant to do, as the wood can bend—and then told K. off for opening the package to check they hadn’t reduced it to sawdust in transit. “You shouldn’t open them when they’re leaning on something.”
They also tried sneakily to get her to sign that all of the goods had been inspected—even the one they’d positioned so that a woman of slight build would be unable to lift and reseat it; so that she couldn’t check it according to their own woefully spotty layman’s twist on what they’d probably otherwise decry in fine Littlejohn fashion as “elf an soyfti.”
All in all, the experience was as bad as it could be, without actually being bad. And if you’re still reading this, I could send you some sort of badge.