I just came back from a war zone.

It was mayhem, it was violent, it was terrifying. There was arguing, protesting and deathly stares. Children were screaming. People were hungry. There was an overarching notion of plying money from the hands of the already-poor. There were winding paths of shuffling feet; temptation lurked on every corner. I found myself awake in my worst nightmare and I was aching to get out. This place has a name that instills incurable fear in me; yet I was forced to make the trip and so reluctantly went into the depths of a hideous land.

Bloody Ikea.

Taking me to this store inevitably leads in disaster. Apparently, fast-walking and cynicism are not welcome among the masses that flock there to furnish their homes with the same crap as their next-door neighbours.

Thankfully, of the few possessions I own, very little are from the Swedish furniture manufacturer. The place sends me crazy. It’s never a quick stop by to grab some simple black photo frames, it’s a journey into hell.

After my trip there, just now, I need to make a few apologies:

  • to the staff, for all the items that I broke and smashed.  I like to play with things. I get bored easily. None of it was my fault, honestly, nor my intention. Perhaps look under the pillows on the small white bed for that broken lamp;
  • to the mother of the whiny child, for directing curses at him. Apparently I have little tolerance for children who scream and kick in front of me, blocking my way, and for their parents who have little control over such tirades;
  • to the couple engaged in a massive dispute, for being deliciously cynical and trying to offer mediation. It seems that cynicism and such should not be within earshot of couples arguing over the grain of wood on a cheap-arse six-chair set that will look incredibly hideous with the plastic veneer of their kitchen table.

Never again. I swear.