It's such a peculiar shop. In fact, it almost feels odd to call it that; it is more of a 'store' than a shop (although I appreciate that Americans use the terms interchangeably I think). But of course, when I think about it, it's also more than a store too, even in the transatlantic sense - it is a city.
I had been given some vouchers, so I thought I would use them to buy Christmas decorations.
"Sir, what are you doing? You're going the wrong way," said the irritated parking attendant. I had just accidentally driven into a traffic cone. He seemed annoyed as his yellow vest flashed past the passenger window.
"The thing said there were spaces this way!" I protested. He called me something under his breath while I reversed. I drove round the damp car park, looking for an unlikely parking space. I was getting hot and bothered.
How do older people get in and out of their cars? Sometimes I find myself contorting my body like a gymnast, just to squeeze out between my car and the next. One foot out, spin, arms arched while holding the door from scratching the paintwork of the other vehicle. Breathe in, shuffle out and shut the door. It takes some doing sometimes. Are parking spaces getting smaller?
I got into Stockholmhaven through the gigantic revolving door. A blast of hot air hit me in the face and nearly knocked my cap off. The place was packed. I joined the queue for the escalator and slowly found my way into the city.
Stockholmhaven amazes me. I moved through the perfect-looking little studies and bedrooms, along with everyone else. It's an ideas factory, a place where imaginations get sparked. Tables and chairs, neat place settings, nifty storage solutions and clever seating; multicoloured cabinets of glass and pine, fancy mirrors and elegant light fittings dangling from the warehouse ceiling. It suddenly occurred to me that Stockholmhaven is Santa's grotto for grown-ups... without a Santa.
I stumbled into the kitchens area. My heart sank a little bit. Some of them were enormous! I imagined myself dancing effortlessly round a shiny kitchen, frying and baking and chopping to the sound of salsa. A central island? Wine storage underneath? Fancy cupboards and an enormous freezer? Yes please.
But my kitchen is too small for any of that. I can barely turn around without knocking the bin over.
Anyway, I wandered through the bathrooms, bedrooms, utility rooms and galleries of empty frames and Persian rugs. Eventually, I found the Christmas stuff.
I should say 'Winter stuff' really, because in Stockholmhaven, no-one calls it Christmas. Everything is labelled 'winter' - even the very obvious plastic Christmas trees. In fact, the word Christmas is deliberately missing from the city. I overheard a conversation between one customer and a yellow-clad Stockholmhaven Elf. The customer was looking for cookie cutters shaped like Father Christmas. The elf pointed her in the direction of the 'Winter figures' in the display of cookware, all convolutedly, without using the forbidden word.
So. I got loads of red and gold winter baubles, some nifty folding boxes and a couple of picture frames. I also got a bit overloaded with meatballs. I have nothing further to add about the food in Stockholmhaven, other than that I still don't understand how everything tastes as though it's kind of forgotten what flavour it's supposed to be. I didn't have Daim cake this time. My teeth were thankful.
Wearily, I pushed the trolley over the rough paving that leads from the lift to the car park. It had gone dark while I'd been inside. However, there were no cars either side of mine, which seemed like a relief. The trolley rattled over the concrete. I popped open the boot, loaded my stuff into it and realised that I'd parked in a giant puddle.
Carefully, on tip-toes, clutching my car key in one hand, I balanced myself artfully into the driving seat as though performing for an invisible circus. Before long, I was on my way home, out of Stockholmhaven and hoping beyond hope that I had chosen the correct exit ramp.
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