I've been mithering for months about getting a table. As I have actual real guests at the end of the week, I thought I'd better bloody get on with it. The after-effects of the anaesthetic have meant that I get up, faddle around a bit and then go all wan and back to bed. So I didn't actually get to IKEA until 6.30pm. There is some sense in this, of course. At that time of day, it's much emptier. However, there were still some families browsing with less aim than cattle, walking slowly in front of me while their projectile offspring assailed my trolley wheels. One cannot do much about this, although mass sterilisation occasionally seems reasonable.
I serially ignored all the stupid worries, e.g., I won't be able to find the table; the staff won't speak English; the taxi service will have finished for the night; the taxi service man won't speak English; I won't get home before the taxi service man; and so on. It's wearying in my head at times. Working up a hideous IKEA sweat, I buggered on, and arrived home before the taxi service came with the goods. So far, so goods.
Getting the goods (I also bought an opportunistic ironing board) up in the lift was a right fucking nightmare, but the table is now in the middle of creation, face down on the carpet. Tomorrow I shall complete it and then sit smugly at it, being a person who owns a big table. Drinking coffee or holding a pen or something. Perhaps even eating off it. Like a person with a table.
So, the moral is, if your balls fall off stick them back on, and tell the fence-making voice in your head to shut the fuck up.