Right. The IKEA trip (you just knew that this room hadn't heard the last of it).
It was curiously unsurprising that, despite having rung yesterday to check, and been told that, ye, we've got plenty of those, the storage bins we wanted weren't in stock (and IKEA refuses to put things aside for customers, and you can't order most things on line). We hunted for them; asked the first assistant who came into view, who directed us to an information point, where we queued; we were then directed to another information point, where we also queued; we were then directed back to the part of the store where we came from (inexplicably and without irony called "The Oasis"), having to fight our way against the tide of South London humanity moving inexorably through the building; and eventually found a supervisor, who was enormously apologetic, but there seemed to be an error with the stock control computer. He would be happy to take our details and call when the next lot came in, so that we could have another 80-mile round trip; oh, and they couldn't put them aside. If we wanted to complain, we'd need to contact customer services. No, there was no customer services representative on hand to deal with us. This whole experience took the best part of two hours - at the end of which it was a blissful relief to emerge into the daylight - even if all the daylight had to offer was Croydon in a steady drizzle.
Through all of this, the various staff members we spoke to were really helpful, as far as it was in their gift to be; it was obvious from the outset that they were being shafted by the system just as much as we were.
The whole IKEA experience was, as ever, dreadful. The whole object of the exercise seems to be to get you into the store and keep you there, and ensure that you walk past all the stuff you don't want before you have any hope of finding what you need.
And it was hot, and crowded, with appalling muzak.
Oh, and there was an accident on the M23 - and therefore a long traffic jam - on the way home.
