A few minor embellishments aside, i.e. eye liner and padded bras, I have always endorsed a ‘what you see is what you get’ approach which is probably why I like Ikea. Ikea is. It is not B&B Italia. It is not Eames or Le Corbusier, Kartell, Boca do Lobo, or French Heritage. Ikea is and I love it. Each time I wander through its display of living rooms, dining rooms, kitchens, bedrooms, compact 25 and 35 sqm living solutions, I am in awe. Cosy, functional, romantic, minimalist, messy, zen, urban, industrial. A bit of hygge. A bit of kitsch.


Decades ago, I witnessed the opening of the first Ikea shop in my home town. Suddenly gone, the formica and cheap plywood. Color entered our world, together with tealights and my good friend Billy.

Ah, Billy!

The ultimate iconic Ikean artefact; object incontournable in the development of homo domesticus modernus. And I, femina domestica moderna, was hooked. My student room was an Ikea blueprint, my first studio apartment an Ikea template. And still now, well, I might have outgrown Billy but I am at peace with that.


I read that 1 in 10 Europeans is conceived in an Ikea bed. Par for the course, my children, in getting their interior design sorted, turn to Ikea. Genetic relevance or simply, the art of retail innovation? Best to never underestimate the Scandinavians.

I am not obsessed with Ikea, I am merely drawn to its persistent relevance. And I am not the only one. Douglas Coupland, be it in Eleanor Rigby, JPod, Miss Wyoming, Microserfs, Hey Nostradamus, The Gum Thief – did I miss any? – can’t get away from Ikea-referencing, which I fear might be partly responsible for the disturbing perversion in my mind that links the simplicity of Swedish furniture with the anxieties of life and death.

Oh Douglas. Mass culture and consumerism? You have no idea.

How sad I was this weekend to read that said favorite author is single after being unsingle for 20 years. That after a series of recent crises he is left unsure if he believes in God. That he feels genuinely lonely.

In his desperation, the poor man, not unlike President Trump, felt the urge to howl into The Void. ‘I am so lonely,’ he thus tweeted. And The Void replied, reassuring my Ikea accomplice not to despair, that our lives have meaning, that we are real, that we will live forever.

Apparently The Void likes Douglas more than it likes Donald.

Or does it? Do we need The Void to like us? Will adulation save us from the miseries of life? Loneliness? Lovelessness? Isolation?

I like therefore I am. I am liked therefore I am, what? Happy? Less lonely? More hopeful?

Not necessarily.

Likes are fine. But are they the sine qua non of our wellbeing? Are ‘likes’ the stuff we are made of? Not according to Hater, the latest dating app that matches potential partners according to their mutual hatreds. In an era of social media political correctness, this is a major leap; a break with our growing obsession with like-ability. Thumbs up gets a thumb down. Love, not based on shared interests but on joint dislikes.


Pundits rave about this new found freedom. Cats? Nah! Dogs? Don’t think so. La La Land? Are you kidding? And as for Valentine…

Roses are red,
Violets are blue,                           
I hate flowers,
And I don’t like you.