Ikea and me are old foes. I carry the scars of previous battles both mentally and physically. The war dance is always the same - I walk around some distant warehouse where various bits of furniture have been put together in the night by a team of trained engineers with access to all sorts of clever tools and keen assistants. The next morning they're sent away and replaced with mongy spotty teenagers who are given old screwdrivers and told to mince around the displays trying to convince the wandering public that they put them up (and if they can, SURELY the meandering public can - at least get that thought into the poor shoppers wife who's trying to get her husband to buy something so she can shout that at him later when he gives up and goes to the pub). I am FORCED to walk around the ENTIRE warehouse even if I know exactly what I want and be convinced that a handy lamp or a bendy mirror is so cheap I'd be an idiot not to buy it before eventually coming across the item the Doris thinks would be 'just the job' (in this case a clothing system). That's when the fun starts. The warehouse location indicates that several boxes will need to be collected (it won't tell you exactly how many) from various places in the store room field. This is despite the unit being totally useless without just one of the other parts. If I manage to travel to the dark north, south, west and east corners of a corrugated covered field which appears not to have been visited by humans for 15 years to retrieve all the parts you can guarantee that at least 75% of the boxes would have been tampered with in some way whilst not making it obvious why: "everything appears still to be here" Then you have to do the walk of shame through the tills where you are all but called a w@nker by the till staff for not making sure the bar codes on the 27 boxes are all facing the correct way and fleeced for at least Â£50 more than you expected. You know they've spotted the box you've forgotten but they'll never tell you. They'll just make sure they're removed from stock so there's none there when you go back to get it. Reversing the car into a spot that's 10 inches thinner than any saloon in current production you have to try and put the stuff in the boot whilst negotiating a two foot concrete pillar that's on the kerb, each one sponsored by BUPA who pick up 75% of their fracture work through victims of collisions with them is not for the faint hearted. Unloading the car on the way home reveals an amazing phenomena and each of the boxed manages to gain 50% in weight and have bits on the side that will ruin the hallway wallpaper for years to come. And then you open the box and it gets worse....... The instructions tell you stupid stuff in detail "take everything out of the box and put it on the floor carefully" before making massive leaps and statements "attach 1 to 35 using the thing and after 27 is affixed to B with the stuff, make sure 7 is put into 132 before 27 is touched" accompanied with diagrams which are apparently of stick men dancing with what you've bought instead of showing you how it goes together. Three parts will break on assembly making the whole thing useless and you'll just make do with whatever you made do with before. The mirror fogs up after a day and the lamps got a 10,000 watt bulb in but it's too cheap to bother taking back so you just add it to the other 300 in the garage that you don't remember buying before (you get one every time you nob) Needless to say, Ikea and I don't get on. Rant over.