Never in the long history of this blog have I posted about my dreams. Largely because dream recounting reminds me of one particularly self-obsessed boyfriend who couldn’t start the day without telling me his dreams in tedious detail, but also because my dreams are either banal, forgettable or X-rated. However, in the light of the last post, I have to share my Ikea Dream. I will do my best to keep it short.
I was queuing to get into Ikea because they only let in 10 people at a time. We were all queuing on a staircase, but the atmosphere was even and pleasant, with no-one becoming irritable. The Ikea staff were handing out champagne to the adults (there were even fine cigars and chocolate for those who wanted them) and ice-cream to the children, in order to help us cope with the queuing. When my family and I were finally allowed through the doors, we had to take the usual Ikea maze, walking past sitting-rooms, dining-rooms and bedrooms. However, instead of the usual Ikea tat, the furniture was EXQUISITE: enormous crystal chandeliers, rich tapestries, highly textured and patterned pieces in radiant but still subtle colours, curliqued iron bedsteads, enormous mirrors. The richness and beauty had a Russian feel, but it was also delicate and made my soul tingle. I wanted to own everything, each piece spoke to me as if it deserved a place in my home. My husband and daughters were with me too, and they loved it, trailing their hands across the rich fabrics and delighting at everything they saw. It was a gorgeous, sensual experience.
Then I woke up, came downstairs and sat on the two-seater version of this. It’s not gorgeous, rich or sensual, but it still makes me happy.