The Swedish Nemesis

One task on this day of paperwork and errands was a quick run to our least favourite furniture store. Last month, our lovely housesitter had broken the (already damaged) window blind in the bedroom, and I needed to get a replacement. 

First problem: Finding a parking space. The only free spots were either reserved for cars with trailers, or for women in dresses, apparently. I used a space in the women‘s row, but wondered at its location, neither close to the entrance nor the exit of the shop.

Then I went in, pleased that I still remembered all the shortcuts and didn’t have to meander through the entire store before arriving at the curtains and blinds section. I grabbed the one I needed, dodged the ambling families and pensioners who were discussing the pros and cons of every single cushion, wine glass or plant pot while standing in the aisle, and went to the „express checkout“. 
The store has 20 self-checkouts, but only four were open. So everyone queued and waited. In front of me, a young father had given the scanner to his toddler, who was sitting in the trolley and took her time scanning every single one of the many items her daddy gave her to look at - mostly plastic boxes, plates, mugs, placemats and kitchen utensils. 

After waiting almost 10 minutes for the „express“ checkout (which then tried several times to make me buy a loyalty „family card“), I only had to swerve around the lunch queue around the hot dog area, and I was out. Without buying any napkins, candles or Swedish biscuits, despite all of Ikea‘s efforts to force them on me. I count that as a win.