THE STRANDMON PACT

I bet there’s a Swedish furniture designer somewhere who randomly just cackles to himself every now and then. Sinking back into a comfy armchair, swilling a glass of something in a crystal tumbler; pushing a trolley around a supermarket, watching a ball game, just gently in unexpected moments - he chortles to himself as though somewhere far off, he’s pulled off the world’s most devious practical joke.

Meanwhile, in England, his greatest and most Machiavellian project of course, is being pulled out of gigantic cardboard boxes by couples unaware of the terrible pact they’ve entered into.

On the one hand, the promise of a cosy chair to settle into on those dark wintry nights - a repose to write and think and read and draw, curled into the sturdy, soft embrace provided by its smooth fabric and elegant arms. On the other, the descent into the knee-crunching, arm-twisting, finger slicing argument-filled Mephistophelian bargain of actually having to assemble it.

Here’s the thing: the Strandmon only has four main bits to it. It really is the simplest piece of IKEA furniture, and in theory it ought to bolt together like Lego. Nope. Today, we both were upside down under the seat, twisting screws into holes we couldn’t see, and at least one of us (okay, me) was huffing and puffing about it as though being put through a medieval trial of character.

Every joint, from finger to kneecap felt involved. And the worst of it? It’s actually the third time we’ve bought and built one of these things - one didn’t survive the sewage flood and this was its replacement. Fool me once, says the wise man, shame on you; fool me three times, cackle away in a Swedish supermarket.

I reckon it would make a brilliant session for marriage prep classes by the way. At one end of the church, the vicar with a stopwatch; at the other, sparkly-eyed couples with IKEA flat packs. At the end, they all sit round in a circle of Strandmons and discuss what they’ve learned about themselves.

My knees hurt, and I think I got sawdust in my eye. Not to worry - at least there’s somewhere to cosy up now. Sammy gave me a high-five, then we cleared away the rubbish and shuffled the chair into its new corner in the kitchen.

It had better be comfy. Otherwise I’m booking a grumpy ticket to Stockholm.