Humour: Amanda Blair needs an Allen key for husbands

When it comes to navigating the aisles of vast shopping spaces, sometimes two heads really aren’t better than one.

We have a marital agreement that we don’t do “jobs” together. To increase efficiency and not become one of those couples who wander around shops looking bored and medicated, we have a strict “one job, one person” policy. Rarely do we move out of our assigned lanes. Husband does hardware, horticulture and meat products (plus maintenance of associated meat equipment such as barbecues and coalfired rotisseries). I do pretty much everything else.

So it came as a complete surprise when he suggested we head to the Swedish home of flat pack furniture to look at new lighting. I checked his temperature and wondered if this was the first sign of early-onset dementia. It was very out of character. He assured me he was fine, but figured it might be good for us to inspect lighting together.

I couldn’t refuse this opportunity to witness his in-store debut. For 24 years purchasing the Kleppstad wardrobes and Kallax shelving units have been my responsibility, so I was keen to show him around and, more importantly, see how he coped under the intense pressure of the Market Hall. Would he be able to make it out without purchasing a scented candle, a GIANT packet of serviettes he’ll never use and a stack of Knäckebröd rye biscuits? This challenge is a reality TV show waiting to happen.

Upon entry I explained the blue bag system to him. He refused the offer, saying that he knew what he wanted and we could just go there, get the lights and leave. I scoffed at his naivete and told him he had to follow the arrows, and now he was in there was only ONE. WAY. OUT. (Cue horror movie sting and devilish laugh.)

It was time he suffered like I had while searching for the Malm four-drawer shelving system for the kids’ bedrooms.

This was payback time and there was no way I was going to reveal the secret shortcut. I was going to enjoy every minute of his confusion, and as his pupils dilated and beads of sweat formed on his brow, I knew he was going to blow.

It was spectacular. “I hate this place, I just want to get to lighting.” “Why can’t I just go to lighting? Why do I have to walk through soft furnishings?” “This is all MIND TRICKS, they’re playing MIND TRICKS.” “I just want to get to lighting and GET OUT OF HERE. Why can’t I GET OUT OF HERE?”

I asked him to calm down as he was frightening the kiddies playing in the Hemmahos children’s tent, and one child ducked for cover under the Mammut 85cm plastic table and stool set. He increased his pace and doubled back through bathrooms and bedding, searching furiously for somebody in yellow.

Finding one, he tapped them on the shoulder and started screaming about transparency, how he was a busy person, time was money and all he wanted was some cheap massproduced lighting. She nodded and sympathised, and for a moment he was calm. Until she said, “I get it, I’m just after some Ribba picture frames, have you seen them? I’m lost.”

He was shattered. I assured him that we’d all been there. There was no shame. I’d go and get the lights, and he could console himself with meatballs in the cafe.

Walking away I looked back at him, tray filled with processed snacks, a vacant, sad stare on his face. Then I noticed all the other diners and they looked the same, like cast members in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

Sad, defeated, confused, beaten by the challenges of a confusing floor layout, European sizing and too many choices. Broken people that not even an Allen key could put back together.

Better start the car.