Episode 7: Flatpack Therapy
One Hex Key to Rule Them All
“Dad, why is that little man always smiling?
Is this fun for him?
Do you think it’s fun?”
It’s 2025.
I know, it’s scary being Adult Siggy.
It’s like Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt, you know when a character looks directly into the camera, breaking the fourth wall and acknowledging the audience, disrupting the illusion of reality—reminding viewers they are watching a constructed narrative.
Alright, calm down, it’s not that deep. But still.
Here I am trapped in IKEA, three hours in, pushing a wonky trolley with 30 tea-light candles, a soft toy rat called Sven, a storage solution named SNÖRVLA, and zero dignity.
My kids are teens—yes mate you grew up, thought we covered that—do I really need Sven? Yes, yes I do.
“This isn’t shopping. This is soft-core psychological warfare.” I mutter.
Pause.
Here it is. You’re lured in with cinnamon buns and minimalist lighting, then they trap you in a labyrinthian one-way system that feels like being politely kidnapped by a family of introverted design enthusiasts. No exits. No shortcuts. Just aisle after aisle of flatpack.
And just when you think the punishment is over—when you’ve emerged with your trolley full of boxes and bruised self-worth—they hand you a tiny wordless cartoon man, let’s call him Björn, who says: “Now fuck off and put this shit together.” What they forgot to mention was that “You will also need to find someone on Youtube who can put this together otherwise your KALLAX unit will collapse.”
You get to spend your weekend interpreting hieroglyphics with nothing but a HEX key, and your own fragile ego.
Ok, we’re back.
A man walks by with a brown Labrador.
The man’s wearing a t-shirt that reads: The Original.
The lab is wearing some kind of doggy tee that says: The Remix.
Both look equally exhausted.
The Remix glances at me, then at his human owner, and then back at me — as if to say, Same shit, different leash.
The Original nods his head in my direction and says:
“This ain’t shoppin’ mate. This is like a fucking audition for a Scandinavian endurance trial. And then we all go home to look at that smug cunt pointing at screws in the manual, like we understand what the fuck he wants us to do.”
Jeez man. Calm it down brother. It’s only flatpack.
Then it happens.
Someone cuts across the one-way system.
The ONE WAY SYSTEM!
Nobody reacts. Like, not a single soul.
WTF?!
Then it hits me. This isn’t Skandiland anymore, I’m back in the UK where people are more tolerant of others destroying agreed social norms, or at least they pretend.
Anything to not rattle the cage.
Little Siggy would’ve struggled with this shit.
One brew and I’ll stop diagnosing furniture.
It was the summer of 1979. We were in the ‘Home Organization’ section of IKEA.
“Dad? Can I have this, please?” I said, holding up a stuffed Elk named Olle.
“Siggy, you have 100s of different elks, do you really need another one?” Dad said.
Guess I didn’t actually want any of the toys.
I just needed something—anything—to distract from that creeping sensation in my brain, slowly seeping through my body like a cloud of nauseous mosquitoes, undecided whether to chill or feed.
My whole body prickled.
I scratched at myself compulsively, like some medieval leper trying to hide his scars, hoping no one would notice the panic under my skin.
“Dad?”
“Siggy, I-” Dad abruptly stopped.
A guy casually crossed the one-way system, into the Lighting section.
Now, I know about the “shortcut” you COULD use—dad told me.
But nobody in their right mind would ever do that. No. No, no, no, no, no.
Carnage.
Dad was no stranger to conflict, probably why decades later he’d written several best-selling books on the topic. But, it wasn’t him reacting to the serious crime committed. He was there to observe.
Within seconds the Swedish Etiquette Mafia circled around the poor man leaving no room to escape, not even downstairs to the Self-Serve area. This was where products were organized by aisle and bin numbers, so you could hide here, because nobody knew how to match bin numbers with aisles.
“Did you notice that there is a one-way system throughout the store?” One of them asked.
“There are arrows on the floor every two meters, so it’s easy to see which direction you should walk.” Another chipped in.
“Do you understand the danger you have placed other people in?” A grave looking lady said, turning up the pressure.
And then… the final death blow:
“How do you think our society would continue to operate and outshine all others if it hadn’t been for the organisation, careful administration and kindness of Sweden.” One man proudly uttered.
Alright, calm down buddy.
The man was lost for words. I mean literally, he did not utter a single syllable.
Once they had completed their unified assault, they parted their ways into the perfect symmetry that was Prints and Frames.
My dad later told me that the chap was German, so he did not understand a word of what had just happened. Lucky fucker.
I peered over to where my dad stood. He was scribbling down notes in his journal. Oh boy, it was going to be a long evening when we got back to mum.
“Siggy, let’s hurry up and try to get through this. We have strangers coming tonight.”
There were precisely three things I loved about that comment.
Number 1: There was an end to this flatpack madness (or so I thought).
Number 2: The Swedish Food Market and Bistro was the next stop, which meant: Meatballs, then cinnamon buns.
Number 3: We were having strangers coming over which meant: cake.
Side note: Swedes have an interesting, in a warm cuddly sort of way, view of strangers. So for example, whenever Swedes have guests visiting, they are often referred to as strangers, främmande. Mum would say “Siggy, we have strangers coming tonight so maybe we should get some Coconut Yum-Yums?”. An outsider hearing this would assume we’d open our front door to a random passing by.
And we’re in the Swedish Food Hall - oh yeah.
The best thing about the Food Hall wasn't just meatballs and cinnamon buns. They rocked and I will destroy them in a bit, but what really tickled my tackle, was the small TV-looking box which you placed your food in, turned the dial and BANG! your bun returned warm and fluffy like it had been baked right there.
Dad and me racked up a load of meatballs, mashed potato, a kiddie-pool of creme sauce and heaps of lingonberry jam, and of course a plate of cinnamon buns. Once I’d devoured the food, I scurried across the floor to the magical machine.
The door to the box heater, slowly opened, bun inside. There was something else in there already, something silvery and shiny, but that would probably just make it nicer.
I calmly pushed "Start," took a step back and the bun began its own punk rock light show — flashing like a disco ball on fire.
Ay?
That didn’t usually happen.
Flames. Real ones.
A scream from behind the counter.
Dad appeared out of nowhere, like Batman but with corduroy. Calmly unplugged the microwave, winked at the lady by the till, and put his hand on my shoulder.
The flames stopped abruptly.
“Don’t worry Siggy, you're safe now. It looks like there’s tin foil in the microwave. That’ll be why there were flames and loud crackles.” Dad said.
What a legend.
Pause.
For some reason, every time we visited IKEA, I caused some sort of havoc in the Food Hall. No idea why—maybe it was the sheer excitement of cake, buns, meatballs… basically not the crap I was served at home, like processed fishballs in tomato sauce that made the rice soggy.
Like this one time: I’d just bought a Kex bar (they’re like wafer chocolate bars, but so good a Swede would probably kill for one), and I complained—loudly—that IKEA should sell them warm.
To my surprise, several Swedes behind me nodded solemnly. I mentioned it again. Within minutes, a small but devoted horde of Kex-bar enthusiasts had formed behind me, a six-year-old, chanting at the poor cashier:
“WARM KEX BARS FOR THE PEOPLE!”
Anyway. That’s what I remember.
OK, we’re back.
Mum opened the door and dad and me marched in proudly showing the catch of the day, a KALLAX which is like a shelf-y looking unit.
“Did you have a lovely meal, Siggy babes?”
I told her all about the cool explosion, fire, the buns, meatballs and that Dad had saved the day.
She gave him a kiss, they embraced and started cuddling some more.
“C’mon!” I moaned, though kind of liked them being close again (a few weeks later they agreed on a trial separation—maybe another Episode.).
Dad and me ended up in the living room with Tamara, the mentalist dog, a bunch of cardboard boxes and strange looking miniature tools.
“Right, Siggy, this one’s easy to assembly apparently”. Dad said.
He opened a manual which “shows us exactly how to build this unit in no time.”
“Why does the tiny IKEA man not have a face?” I said pointing at the first page of the instructions.
“He does have some sort of face Siggy, but it’s kind of part of his body and neck, I think.” Dad said.
“This is all very confusing, there’s loads of bits and parts.” I said.
“I understand you might think it’s confusing, but there’s a real logic behind this design and that’s why I love IKEA. It just makes sense.” Dad said.
I assisted him by passing tools that I thought had been crafted for very small elves. At the beginning, he seemed very upbeat, but as time passed his mood changed.
“Dad, why is that little man always smiling? Is this fun for him? Do you think it’s fun?”
“No, is not that much fun anymore, Siggy, especially not with the little man pointing vaguely at screws and parts I do not what they are. It really feels like he’s judging me.”
The words were uttered in a strange punctuated way, red faced, like he was struggling to breathe.
I’ll admit, this confused me a tad.
Dad continued.
“I’ve come to realise that IKEA isn’t about furniture. It’s about therapy.”
Mum walked in.
“The exposure kind.” She said smiling.
Mic Drop
Here’s the thing. IKEA was never about furniture.
It’s about navigating your own emotional flatpack—armed with a hex key, an incomprehensible manual (well for some), and a smiling bald man who offers zero comfort and no words, just vague gestures toward a pile of unidentifiable parts and a silently collapsing sense of self.
Because somewhere between aisle 37 and the self-serve bin section, it hits you.
This isn’t shopping. This is the slow, systematic exposure therapy of adulthood.
And that little IKEA man?
He’s not just a guide. He’s a mirror.
No mouth, no eyes, no exit.
Just a kindly shaped cipher for every expectation you’ve ever failed to meet—and every KALLAX you’ve pretended you could build without googling the video.
But somehow, despite the judgmental arrows, you got through it. With meatballs. Maybe a cheeky cinnamon bun, or three. And with loving help—someone beside you holding a wonky shelf saying, “It’ll probably be fine.”
And weirdly, it is.
Siggy xx
Note: Siggy—present day.
Yes, most of my furniture is from IKEA. No, this is not a cry for help.
The KALLAX still stands—though one shelf leans ever so slightly, like it’s processing something.
And the little IKEA man… I’ve made peace with him. We nod at each other now, like two ex-lovers who once shared a screwdriver set and too much hope.
Bless his featureless little soul.
Siggy xx
Thank you 🙏
I’m somewhat of an IKEA Ninja - I think my record for going in, getting ONLY what I went in for and getting out is 13 minutes. Does that make me an avoidant? 😆