Fat chance*

No fookin' way.
You can paint the letters marking the entrance to your flatpack emporium in the cheeriest of primary colours, in a 12,000,000 pt Comic Sans MS font, you won't get me in.
Don't get me wrong. I'm no different than the average bloke: the sight of an allen key gives me an erection, I get an irresistible urge to yodel when the smell of freshly cut MDF hits my nostrils and I can club any competing hairy hunter for my share of Swedish meat balls.
But you see, I have principles. I refuse categorically to let my home slowly but surely become yet another variation of an Ikea showroom. Except not as well lit. And with a messy mess instead of an arty appealing lived-in cosy one.
I know only too well that in another 10 to 20 years, there won't be a single non-flat pack piece of furniture to be found on any continent.
Real furniture will be exclusively for a handful of billionaires who can keep the last few skilled craftspeople prisoner on an island in the middle of the Pacific ocean.

So there you go. I'm not going in. No shaggin' way.

Except for a couple of black Ribba A4 frames. And a garlic crusher. And a few bits and bobs for the kitchen. And maybe a couch until we can afford a real one. And a couple of Billy book cases. But nothing more, not over my dead flatpacked body!


* 96 kg on the weighing scale this morning. Ouch. Ouch f***g ouch indeed.