So a new shop has opened. You can go to it, park there, buy stuff and take it home with you. Isn't that exciting?
A lot of people seem to think so. Marie went at lunchtime and came back with a plastic Swedish flag which is now poking up above her monitor.
I'm not complaining. If you remember, Walty and I went to the Southampton version at Christmas, and I came back with a carful of furniture.
I expect when the initial rush has died down, I'll be there myself, strolling through the perfectly aligned streets of Stockholmhaven, looking for a floor lamp and a bookcase.
Ah Stockholmhaven, where the roller blinds are neatly peeled over fake windows and the chandeliers hang above kitchen units and foldable dining room tables. Where plastic footprints guide you around scores of beds, cabinets, wardrobes and cupboards, and the windowless warehouse removes you of all sense of direction. Where the countless little yellow Stockholmhaven-elves ferry you about with cardboard boxes and industrial trolleys.
It is just a shop though, right?
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