So, on Tuesday evening all the paperwork was formalized and signed off, and the keys to my little flat were handed over to me. I unloaded all the stuff that I’d packed into my car at the weekend and brought them into the flat. I am terribly, terribly disorganised: I packed a kettle, yet forgot to bring any mugs, tea bags or milk. I brought no cutlery or plates, but I remembered the toaster. I even brought a bottle of Sheffield’s finest Hendersons Relish, yet I didn’t bring anything to put it on.
Whatsmore, I had no furniture, and as this is now ‘home’ – I needed something to sleep on, so I planned to go to the nearest IKEA (Wembley) and get a bed – which is exactly what I did. For future reference, if you have an Audi A3 Sportback, you can fit a MALM double bed and a double mattress into the back, with the seats folded down. It is a bit of a squeeze, and you do practically need to dislocate your arm to change gear, but all the doors and boot shut. That was the good part of the evening.
I hate IKEA. Hate. I always hated it when Emma would drag me round there and I hate it now even more when alone, and now I hate them for an altogether different reason, as you’ll read. Don’t get me wrong – I like the furniture. It’s just flatpack, but it’s usually pretty sturdy and long-lasting, unlike similar guff from Argos or MFI.
I got all the bits together for my bed and made for the checkout. I paid part with cash and part with my debit card. The bit I had to pay on the debit card was about £40. I put the card into the Chip and PIN reader, and it says ‘Swipe card’, so the IKEA lackey swipes it through the till. ‘Manual authorization required’. Great. This confuses the hell out of the lackey, who starts to ask me about using an alternative card – I protest, and tell him to try again, as I know there is certainly enough money in that account. He does, it still wants manual authorization, so he begrudgingly picks up his phone and follows whatever procedure it is to authorize this with IKEA’s clearing bank. He briefly speaks to someone, gives them the numbers from my card and then is put on hold.
Twenty minutes later, and he’s still on hold. Seriously. I offer to use a different card, but by this time, ‘the process’ is underway, and the lackey can’t change the card he’s put the authorization request through for. There’s now a massive queue of people waiting for the checkout, and I’m getting angry glares from people who all assume I’m some kind of card fraudster. I ask for a manager, or for someone to sort this out. No dice. People in the queue start asking for other checkouts to be opened up. No dice.
Another IKEA person comes to the till and is completely ambivalent, I ask her if she would walk down the queue (which must be 20-30 people deep by now, as it is closing time) and just explain to the baying masses what the situation is. She refuses, and starts saying loudly whilst gesticulating that ‘It is YOUR bank, sir. It is YOUR problem sir.’ The people in the queue are now visibly angry, and some are hurling abuse my way – mainly those at the back of the queue, who just about manage to hear the words ‘your’ and ‘problem’ – those at the front have half an understanding as to what’s happening and are somewhat more sympathetic, but certainly no less annoyed.
Obviously, I’m getting quite angry and agitated at the situation, and I hurl some abuse back to the people dishing it at me. There is some danger of things spiralling, but the staff seemed completely content to leave the situation to develop. Eventually, the cashier handed me the phone, and a North American lady purporting to be from HSBC (not my bank) asked me some ‘security questions’ as part of a ‘Random card check’. The questions weren’t completely personally identifiable – like, what’s the last 3 digits of my home phone number, and what’s the 2nd to last letter of my postcode – so I gave them over, and, finally – I was asked to hand the receiver back to the cashier so that she could read him an authorisation code. This took about thirty minutes. Once the till sprung open and I was handed my receipt – not a word spoken, no apology, no sympathetic look – I could do nothing other than give the staff a slow clap round of applause. This was met with a mix of cheers and sighs of relief from the angry queue, and I swiftly got the hell out of there! Never again!
On the way back, I nipped into Tescos to get some essentials – like loo roll, milk and bread and such, before getting back to the flat where Tom could help me lug the stuff up the stairs (Thanks Tom!).
It wasn’t until I had everything upstairs, and we were both exhausted when I realized: I still forgot to get fucking tea bags. Ugh.
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