Tag Archives: trolley

Trolley Wars

trolleyMe and The Teenager joined thousands of other mums and Uni-bound kids at Ikea yesterday.

Each pair had a trolley, a long list and a dismal vibeĀ of wanting to be anywhere but here.

But we were, so we rolled our sleeves up.

We’d discussed our tactics in the car – bathroom stuff, bedroom stuff and kitchen stuff. Easy.

Except Ikea doesn’t work like that. Bathmats, towels and flannels downstairs, loo brush upstairs. Despite this, we executed a fairly neat trolley dash, grabbing most of the list with one sweep of the Market Place. But then we went round and round and round and round looking for the hard-to-find items, which were probably cunningly concealed so we would buy more candles and mini vases.

Despite our best efforts, we came away with no baking trays. Roasting tins? Abundant. Roasting ceramic dishes? Loads. We began to flag and that’s when the niggles started.

‘That’s not a potato masher.’

‘It is. Kind of a modern take on one.’

‘It’s … squiggly.’

‘If it mashes your potatoes, it’s a masher. Trust me on this one.’

‘What duvet cover do you want?’


‘Can you get off your phone for like, one second?’


I chose both sets in grey. Same for his towels, bath mat and flannels.

‘Oven glove?’ said The Teenager.

‘Really? Even I don’t have one?’

‘It’s on the list. Need one.’


‘Fine. Which pillows? Put your head on this. Then this one. Firm? Or soft?’

‘You serious? Can we get a hotdog now?’

We eventually joined the huge queues of similarly distressed people, shuffling forward inch by inch. Once we reached the check-out, I packed, obviously. Three massive blue Ikea bags later, we joined another queue for hotdogs before realising that yep, it was long, but every single person was ordering for twenty (slight exaggeration). We left.

And joined another queue at McDonalds, round the corner. As you do. One happy teenager later, filled with his protein and chemical quotient for the day, we drove home.

‘It’s been nice spending the day with you, sweets’, I said.

‘You too, muvver. Gimme a lift to my friend’s later?’


‘It’s great being an adult, mum’, he said.

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The Teenager Gives Me Nightmares

festivalOne morning last week, I was leisurely sipping on my bowl-sized coffee cup, contemplating another thrilling day at work.

All was well with the world. Sort of.


”Mum, mum, mum, MUM, MUM, MUUUUUUUUUUUUM’.


The Teenager tornadoed into the kitchen, waving his mobile.


‘You know you, like, love me, you know I’m your amazing, like, adoring son, and you want the best for me and you want to make me happy and I would be really, really happy if you …’

I put my coffee cup down.


‘S’like, ah, sooooo ‘citing. Reading!’

‘Reading?’ (at last, The Teenager has inherited my love of books, the joy).

‘Yeah, no, Reading, not reading, d’uh, that’s, like, books. Reading! Can I go, can I go, can I go, can I go? Please, please, purleeeeeze?’


That Reading.

The mud-fest music extravaganza, on a par with Glastonbury. I saw tents, mountains of beer, debauchery.

I gathered my thoughts, put down my cup and tried to look serious.

‘Well. Um. Really? We’ll see.’ (standard parent answer).

‘Nooooooooo, all my friends are going, I’m looking for a tent on Gumtree, there’s a payment instalment plan, the Chilli Peppers have confirmed, I will just, like, die, if I don’t go.’

Hmm. This was serious stuff. What could I do?

Reader, I booked his ticket. I gave him a lecture about drugs, alcohol and washing properly. I told him not to body-surf across the crowds (risk of neck injury, gah). He screen-shotted the booking page as he hovered over my shoulder and Facebooked his friends.

I pushed down my rising panic. How have we come to this? Not so long ago he was desperate to see Bob the Builder and Friends live on stage and was happy to take home a helium Bob balloon.

As he hugged me when the booking was complete, he asked me to google trolleys.

‘Huh? What for?’

‘Like, d’uh. To cart all the beer for the weekend. It’s going to be EPIC.’

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Off My Trolley

Regular readers will know that me and supermarkets don’t have the best relationship. Since MS turned my brain to mush, supermarkets confuse me, trip me up and make me buy things I don’t want (travel toothbrush, pom-pom air freshener for the car).

I’ve successfully managed to avoid them for the last month or so, but the list of things I couldn’t buy locally got longer and longer and I finally had to take the plunge.

Yesterday was the big day. I made a cafetiere of coffee, strong and black, for courage. I gathered my shopping bags together, got my list, double-checked it. I could do this. I was ready. Drove off. Turned round. Forgot my wallet. Drove off. Got parked. Checked lippy in mirror and I was good to go.

Wrestled with trolley and yanked it into the store. Deeeep breath. Huh? They’ve changed the layout round again? Now I had to go up and down every single aisle. The Teenager needed ingredients for a baking lesson in school. He told me he needs a huge jar of Nutella (I was born yesterday) and the cat wanted to try a different brand of food.

I picked up the bin bags, the envelopes, the printer paper, the cat food, the garlic, the shoe polish. Excellent. Just about got everything on the list and avoided the end-of-aisle offers. Only the Nutella to go. The place was lovely and quiet and I glided around feeling serene and calm.

My final aisle. I swerve past a parked trolley when I hear, ‘What are YOU doing here? We thought you were ill, but you look so well?’. Oh god. It’s that mother from school. The one with the most intelligent child in the universe. I listened to her reel off the prodigy’s most recent accomplishments, made my excuses and left, zooming (wonkily) straight for the checkout.

Got to the car. Fabulous. The car next to me was parked so close, I couldn’t open the drivers door. I stomped around, then stomped around some more. With a dramatic sigh, I flung myself into the passenger seat then very inelegantly shifted myself over into the drivers seat with a lot of huffing and puffing. Drove home, chucked a meal in the microwave and sighed.

Then I got a pen and piece of paper and started my new list. Can’t wait for next month.

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