A friend of mine just moved into a new place and asked me to go with her to IKEA for a few items. When your friend asks you to tag along on a trip to IKEA to help carry “a few items”, and woos you with promises of dinner and a good time, of course you say yes. And being the generous, helpful friend that you are, believe them when they say that the suitcases you’ve brought along to aid in the carrying of these items will indeed ease the journey.
So you meet your friend at the Wimbledon station near the ugly women statue. That’s not the name of the statue of course, but the women are quite broad and sharp of edge and stand bronzed in friendship and odd proportions. You cross the street to partake of the culinary delights of Wahaca. A quesadilla and an order of green rice later and you’re both on the tram to the great IKEA.
The labyrinthine monstrosity that is IKEA looms out from the early evening dusk. You enter, filled with glorious purpose and make your way up the grand escalator. Inside, you keep up a spirited discussion on the choice of frames. You take a shortcut but have to double back, seeking scrub brushes and bed linen. A rogue man and his heavily pregnant consort nearly knock you off the path. Claustrophobia begins to set in as your friend rejects item after item. At long last you make your way to the self-service furniture and proceed to select the most errant trolly you can find.
Laughing as you weave your way into the aisles (and other people), you find the chests of drawers you were looking for. You and your friend attempt to lift the drawers but between the laughter and your trousers slipping past your backside you find yourself unable to lift anything at all and have to be rescued from your plight by a helpful IKEA employee.
Once the boxes are on the cart you proceed to the checkout. You feel proud because you’ve found the secret to the errant cart is to steer it at an angle. You choose the longer line, stand, and pay. Moving off to the side you open the suitcases and attempt to load the boxes. Logically, the smaller box should fit in the smaller suitcase and the larger box in the larger suitcase.
They do not.
Consequently, the smaller box, having not fit in the smaller suitcase must then definitely fit inside the larger suitcase.
It does not.
You both manage to wrangle the small box in the large suitcase, the large box sans suitcase, and the empty suitcase back on the tram and up the lift at Wimbledon station and out onto the street to the taxi stand. Because there’s no way in heck you’re going to attempt the bus ride home. The taxi driver, who it must be said was very helpful in lifting and unloading, also managed to lose a bit of trou in his efforts.
Moral: A good friend will help you move. A great friend will help you at IKEA, even if your eye is bigger than your suitcase.