Can’t find my credit card. It must be somewhere between these books or in one of the boxes here on my desk-wall-closet called Ölstrïïï (in case you wonder: that’s a triple diaeresis). I take everything out of my working space: no credit card. I put it all back. I ask Saint Anthony. Nothing. I move the rest of the stuff in the piece of furniture around. Still nothing. I move the closet. Crack. Its base gives way. Holy shit.
A good friend told me recently that somewhere in the twenties, product producers had growing concerns that their customers would soon have everything they needed, and would thus no longer buy things. They decided to create material that would not last for very long, and hence avoided running out of business. Today, you notice that printers stop printing, cars stop driving, and closets fall apart.
I can’t complain. I bought this thing second-hand for 10 euros, and it’s been holding up about half a ton of stuff for three years since. Yet I promised myself a chill evening where I’d sit back and read a book instead of running back and forth to relieve the from its books, computery and sound devices. While I do, I notice the main construction flaw: a big part of the weight presses on two 1 cm thick planks, standing on their sides, parallel to each other. They simply tipped over when I moved the thing. And so I use my well-deserved night off to deconstruct Ölstrïïï. You have to give it to its makers: their self-tightening screw system is ingenious.
The next morning, I buy a beam with the right thickness and rebuild the whole thing with a solid base. A great opportunity to dust everything off and rearrange the items for spring. Throw away. Sometimes, we have to be grateful to IKEA for letting us down. Maybe those twenties’ dudes foresaw the upcoming affluence, and wanted to grant us a service. Shake up the rug under our feet. Teach us some gratefulness. Well thanks, fellas.
But I still haven’t found that damn credit card!