IKEA-AKL

Although summer has only just now kicked off properly, having been stuck in bad-weather hell for weeks, the Eye of the Fish did manage to find a few sunny days and go for a roadie up country, thankfully missing all the traffic jams and the unpleasant weather, along with landslides, sewerage spills, and other unearthly delights that seem to unfold for us each year. But our destination threw out the welcome mat for us.

I’ll spare you the details of the trip, namely driving hither and yon, due to our complete absence of a functioning public transport system, so steel wheels were out and rubber wheels were in, with the Fish-mobile plumbed into the network of high-octane fuel that knits our country together.

Regular supply stops for ice-creams and bottom un-numbing made for a pleasant trip, taking the back-road all the way (now now, stop thinking that way), and all doable on basically one full tank of gas. I would far rather have taken a train, and to take the whole fam-damily on the plane would have been ethically bad and financially ruinous, so windows down, elbows out, and we said hello to many cows and sheep along the way. Can you recognise any of our delectable small town highlights? Subtlety is optional in small town.

We arrived in the land of the Aucks late on a Sunday afternoon – 3pm via the Motorway system, so where else better to go than to sample the new IKEA store and the nordic shopping experience. IKEA opened just before Christmas and apparently it has been manic ever since, with the Swedes basically selling out of almost everything, including all their food supplies and many trinkets. But now they have restocked (except for the colourful rug that Mrs Fish liked the look of) and even have a never-ending supply of Swedish meatballs to sample. Personally, the meatballs are bland and boring and I can make better ones myself, or the ones that the small Fish make which are far more tasty. But we’re not here to talk balls, great or small, meaty or salty, sweaty or sweet. We’re here to talk IKEA.

For those of you that have not been to an IKEA before, it is a different sort of shopping experience. It is not a shop – it is a labyrinth of wiggly routes through and endless array of cool Nordicness. I keep wanting to say Danish design, although of course it is from Sweden, but curiously in South Auckland, the clientele was almost entirely Chinese or Indian. Perhaps I am Chinese and / or Indian too. But I don’t want to get into ethnic discussions again – almost got myself into trouble on that last time – but I am wondering, will the arrival of IKEA and all its Swedishness mean that the tastes of the average Aucklander may visually change from pattenation into blandness, sleekness and proto-Euro modernism?

Everything is gloriously presented in unashamed dual language information – English and Swedish – every product has a name, and every name is Swedish first and another Nordic word approximation second – is that second word Danish or is is a description? The English description is in the fine print. What is a Enhet vs a Tvallen? Who cares? Does it matter? It’s cheap as chips!

If you don’t believe me that it is cheap as chips, how much do you think a small tea-light is? What about a small glass tea-light holder? So cheap, you may as well buy a dozen while you’re at it. And the actual tea-lights themselves, that fit inside the tiny glass cups? Literally only cents. I think, maybe, 12 cents each? Buy them in packs of 20 or 40 or maybe 100.

Some of the names were like old friends to me, from my days way back a few decades ago when living in the UK, where I went under duress with my friends once, to the joys of the “Brent Cross Gyratory” aka the home of IKEA in London. It was shoppaholic heaven – but my own private hell – so much rampant consumerism at a time when I barely had two farthings to rub together.

But I remember Billy and I remember the Stig, although I thought he used to be always dressed in white and not speak a lot. Here, the Stig just sat quietly on a shelf.

There were, of course, many things that I could have bought, and almost did, until I remembered the already overcrowded car back in the parking lot. Hmmm. Perhaps not the Branas storage unit then – although if it was still in a flatpack state, then I could maybe assemble it later? But then – isn’t there always one missing screw? Or a lapsed Allen Key? I must confess though – I was sorely tempted.

Having designed a million kitchens and bathrooms in my time (who in this line of work has not?) I was fairly amazed at the low cost of the fixtures and fittings. I covered the Uppdatera, as you do, for a ridiculous low price, but we have remained un-Updatera’d for many years now so why would i really need one now?

Would it make me somehow more Swedishly organised? Would my knives and spoons stay just as separated? Why not, in fact, but a whole new set of cutlery while you’re there? Why not simply Marie Kondo your entire existing battered and chipped pottery life out the window and buy a new one?

The kitchens of course were gorgeous in their minimalism, and having once had a client back in 2001 who wanted a $90,000 kitchen imported from Italy, I was sorely tempted to price a replacement unit from Sweden, probably for less than one tenth of the price. And without the Italian designer tantrums that we had to put up with back then.

The final step in the labyrinthine journey takes you through the final warehouse section and then the self-checkout gates – why not get a giant blue and yellow bag to take your purchases home? – and a last minute brandishing of Mr Visa’s finest product, to bring me up to a staggeringly large total of stuff that I really didn’t think had cost that much – but which as already slipped effortlessly into the morass of trinkets and knick-knacks that make up the detritus of our modern life. I don’t think anything has actually been Marie Kondo’d yet, my new purchases just adding to the pile of crap already in existence.

But I am wondering how long our existing jobs can go on, designing things for clients and getting them specially built, when all you really need to do now is to open up a web page and point and click, and a week later assemble it into something resembling a cool piece of Skandi noir. So many choices. So many options. But: throw out the old stuff first. Go give it to the local Harry Potter Hospice Shop.