IKEA

What's IKEA? I repeated. Pliny, don't you know?

No, I don't, said Pliny. What is it ?

It's a place, a huge, vast, enormous place, where you go with your mum to look at furniture and furnishings and knicknacks, and, as you tend to fall into a sort of trance there, the time goes by until you realise you are going to be obliged to buy some lunch.

That sounds good, said Pliny. Lunch.

Little you know, I replied, remembering the greenish layers on the salmon chunks, and how they had disagreed with my mother afterwards.

In any case, it doesn't matter, said Pliny. I don't suppose I will ever go there.

No, I'm sure you won't, I said. Were there any other questions?

Yes, said Pliny. What was that about placing a rubber band around your mother's curtain rod, and a subsequent debate?

Oh, that's a funny story, I said. I made her some nice blue curtains with the stuff we bought at IKEA, and took them round on Saturday. The curtain rod was too long and needed to be cut, so we measured it and marked it with a rubber band, so that the handyman would know where to saw it off on Tuesday.

That's not very funny, said Pliny.

Wait, I said, it becomes funny. Then mum said, perhaps we should mark it with a marking pen.

We marked it with the rubber band, I said.

What if it moves? she said.

Why would it move? I said.

Someone might move it, she said.

Why would they? I said.

I don't know, she said.

I'm sure no one will move it, I said.

Alright, she said. But it's risky!

Well, mark it, I said.

But she didn't.

Dear me, said Pliny, not laughing. I can't help thinking that one of you was being deliberately obtuse.