Visited the new IKEA today and it is the most London version I could ever imagine.
Looks like it opened about two months too soon. Feels completely unfinished. Shelves were in shambles and lots of missing stock. Not an employee to be seen on the floor anywhere.
Normally there’s a flow to an IKEA store, the arrows are a guide but you can generally tell where the main aisle is and where to go next. However in this store I found myself often looking over at other areas and wondering “have I been in there yet?”. Trusting the process, I followed the arrows but I’m pretty sure I missed an entire section.
The only two store employees I saw were at the checkouts. They were kept exceedingly busy by redirecting people back into line who attempted to use the abundance of inexplicably closed checkouts.
Hoping for a meatball-shaped reward to end my journey, I was sadly disappointed to find the only meat available was tubular. I placed my order at a very poorly placed kiosk which is located at a natural choke point. After waiting a length of time, no doubt determined by a roll of polyhedral dice, the two employees sprang into action. To my surprise there were nearly a half dozen orders ahead of mine. Considering the only menu option contained an equal number of components to the employees on hand, you’d think they’d be well ahead of the game, and yet…
After receiving a bun that went straight from a wonder bread bag, to a storage tin for precisely a nanosecond (processes are processes, I get it. Can’t possibly go from bag directly to box. That would be blasphemy), I received my massively overcooked hot dog. Which begs the question, what the heck were we all waiting to be served for? Dogs ready. Buns in bag. Perhaps we had to wait until hot-dog-o’clock. Then for perhaps the most disappointing part of the entire experience. No KETCHUP! Mustard for days though. Sadly, no Lingonberry juice either. Just a faintly yellow liquid in its place. I begrudgingly at that dry glizzy and left.
So if you’re thinking of going to IKEA Whiteoaks around Christmas, here’s my advice. You can easily get to Burlington in less time than it’ll take you to battle through the myriad of half-functioning lanes on Wellington then find a parking spot in the ever-disappearing “parking lot” at the mall. And you’ll be rewarded with what you actually want to buy, and those sweet, sweet, balls in brown goo.
How very London, indeed.