A year or so ago, the 14 year old decided that a new bed would make the ideal christmas present for her room.   A loft bed, so that she could have her computer and other stuff [*] under it.  Quite the sensible present.  We hunted high and low in our search even to the point of driving all the way to Ikea in snow, the like of which had not been seen since….oh, the previous year maybe.   Ikea kindly told us they were out of stock.  Ask me how I know they have an online stock checker now.

In the grand tradition of shopping, the item you require is always located in the place you initially dismissed as ‘no, they’ll never have it’  – or it will be located at the farthest point to you in your shopping parabola.  I think, if a university wanted to pay me enough money as a research fellow, I could come up with a set of shopping theories,  all of which would be absolutely splendid, but as with all research, it is simply something we inherently knew anyway.

The journey back was fraught (I mentioned the snow, did I? Rasmussen would have blanched. No, really) , and as a ‘let’s exhaust all the possibilities wile we’re out sort of thing’, we called in at our local DIY place, 2 miles from home.  Focus is now defunct, and I think what follows might shine a light on their eventual demise.   There, glittering in all it’s brushed metal glory stood the last loft bed in the country.

I cursed a little bit when I found out that, as it was a display model, we’d have to disassemble it ourselves, and brightened slightly when the price was reduced as it was an ex-display model.  We left a deposit, and made the intrepid journey of oh, 2 miles home, glowing in the knowledge that we had found and located the bed.

Christmas eve dawned crisp and even (actually, floppy and a bit wobbly, to be slightly more honest about it) and we made out way to the DIY store.  We were armed with those Ikea hex-head cranked spanners that everyone has in their draws, and we were grateful for them and for the ubiquity of design as we unbolted the bed.  The bed was nearly down and on the trolley, there were just a few of these pesky screws to undo.  We hadn’t bought a screwdriver, so we asked one of the DIY shop’s staff  – a callow youth – if he could find us a Philips screwdriver.  “Of course” he said, and bounded off as only teenagers can,…

He returned, and related to us apologetically and earnestly that he could find any Phillips, but would a Stanley do instead?

 

[*] Other stuff.  This turns out to be a rats nest of hair straighteners,  hairdryers, lava lamp leads and as many things that you can plug into a socket, imbued with make up and hairspray residue.  Add to that heady mix, plates, glasses and half eaten bags of crisps (the other half presumably carpet food), and you wonder about what actually makes them the fairer sex?  Tracey Emin? A mere pretender compared to this room….