I visited IKEA for the first time—I won’t be going back for 2 reasons
Captain Jack Sparrow once said that ‘the deepest circle of hell is reserved for betrayers and mutineers’. I suggest that the second deepest layer is reserved for the IKEA on London’s Oxford Street.
I grew up in New Zealand, where IKEA didn’t exist, and I had always seen this as a downside, as I had heard so many great things. Now, with IKEA poised to open its flagship store in Auckland at the end of this year, I feel more akin to one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—burdened with the knowledge of a terrible plague bearing down upon my countrymen yet powerless to stop it. My trip to IKEA, like the road to hell, was paved with good intentions.
I wanted a new ice cube tray and a laptop case, and I happened to have the day off on a Monday, so I traipsed along to IKEA on Oxford Street to finally see what the fuss was about. I was excited because I love homewares and I love to shop, so I didn’t really think anything could go wrong.
As soon as I approached the doors, generic house music blared out of the shop at a decibel similar to a jet at takeoff. This was like a warning shot across the bow, but I ignored it—this is why I always carry noise-cancelling headphones, so I can be prepared for any eventuality.
The top storey of the building is unassuming—a couple of Halloween bits and some luridly coloured merchandise were all that was on display. It was when I descended into the bowels of the building that the full majesty of IKEA was revealed to me.
This shop is not only massive but labyrinthine—each soulless bedroom set up leads into another and another with no room to catch your breath. I was searching for ice cube trays, but everywhere I looked was another office space or a daybed. Even in the kitchen setups, there was everything except what I needed.
About 10 minutes into my exploration of the shop, I decided to cut my losses and leave. Oh, if only it could have been that simple.
My wanderings had turned me around and disrupted my sense of direction. I couldn’t remember where I had come down the escalator, and every attempt to retrace my steps revealed yet another flat-pack furniture-laden corner that I hadn’t ever seen in my life. At one point, I saw a sign that pointed left to the exit and followed it, only to see another which pointed directly back where I had come from.
I walked 12,000 steps that day, and at least half of them were simply trying to escape from IKEA as the music blared and I weaved between people clawing at the latest beige offering.
IKEA is splattered with what I suppose are meant to be charming slogans. On my travels, I came across one that said smugly, ‘savour the good times’. I wondered when these ‘good times’ were supposed to start, as by this time I had been underground for at least half an hour and had yet to find one.
I also found a mysterious section for plants. Ivy and succulents sat on shelves proclaiming how much sun they needed to survive. They were in the same situation as me: locked beneath the ground in a twisting maze of showrooms without a single window and desperately craving the sun.
Finally, when I was almost ready to give up and climb beneath one of the duvets set out on one of the hundreds of beds, I took a turn left and there it was—the promised land of the escalator leading to the surface.
If it hadn’t been so packed with people, I would have leapt up it two steps at a time, but instead, I leaned against the railing and vowed never to return.
IKEA does have some good things—I didn’t find anything I needed, and I’ll never go back into the store, but I will most definitely be perusing their website for bits and bobs.
As long as I can stay safely within my home, I will be marked safe from IKEA.
