Glad bild

Mini Me decided to purchase a desk from IKEA and invited me to help her construct it. “Do I need to bring any tools?” I asked. “Nope. Should be really simple,” she advised.

The first page of the instruction booklet – which features an image of  someone on the phone, with whom one would assume is the IKEA “How the hell do you put this together” hotline – should be an indicator that assembly is not as simple as implied.

After about an hour of assembling the desk, I asked MiniMe, “Does this make you appreciate fully assembled furniture?” “Sure,” she replied, clearly not caring about the finer things in life.

An hour later, when we were still trying to screw together pieces of lacquered particle board, MiniMe expressed concern. “I’m surprised this is so difficult. They look so happy in the picture,” she said. ‘They’ are the odd shaped cartoon couple who appear rather happy in the sketch in which they are carrying the side of the desk;  and in the other sketch, in which they are inserting 114276 into a bracket – ever so happy.  “What they don’t show in the picture are the wine glasses. Those people clearly stopped for a glass of wine or two and a plate of meatballs with lingonberries before posing for the instruction manual,” I advised.

Three hours later, MiniMe was smiling as big as  the couple in the happy picture. “Yeah! We’re done. I’m so proud of myself for doing this,” she told me. Perhaps Ingvar Kamprad knew what he was doing by including glad bilds (Swedish for ‘happy pictures’) in the instruction manual.  Not one to get caught up in exact translations and spellings, I would have to say MiniMe would consider this desk a glad build. I, on the other hand, was not so glad about it. Next time, I’m bringing my tools and, by ‘tools,’ I mean Article 101. 490.29  –  the IKEA corkscrew. With that on hand, I can guarantee a  glad bild.