Umberto Eco's - the name of the rose

I am in some sort of a dream world. It's not a nightmare, just a weird, hyper-real space in which everything appears simultaneously familiar yet strange: a parallel world, perhaps, a facsimile realm, an enormous simulation, but not quite perfect.

In this space there are rooms within rooms: three-sided enclosures, accurate in every detail. There are people everywhere, yet the space feels strangely uninhabited, devoid of the gentle chaos and decay that declares a truly human place.

There are doors in some of the rooms. Passing through them leads to more spaces, almost, but not quite the same. These, in turn, have more doors. It's like walking through a fractal landscape, endlessly self-referential, endlessly recursive.

I am put in mind of the library, the perfect maze, in Umberto Eco's the name of the Rose. There are even books here, but I cannot read them. I do not understand the language in which they are written. There are words, too, on the walls. They mean nothing to me. And these too seem meaningless. Everything gleams. Everything is smooth. I know that is a table, but it is not a table. The words claim it is something else. It is apparently an "antis."

I am lost. I am utterly de - realised. I need a beer badly.

I am, in fact, inside the Ikea store in Damansara with Chris, bemused, befuddled, enchanted, and adrift. Now, OK, from what I can gather I am possibly the last person in Kuala Lumpur to visit this place, but, hey, I live in Melbourne and now in Hartamas. The need to fit out a couple of my restaurant offered a great reason to head down and do some serious furniture shopping.

With two companions, I set off. I wanted to purchase at least coiple of sofas, and few racks. We knew the names of those objects, and thus limited, they held no fear for us. Except, we discovered, such mundanities do not exist in Ikea-land.

We ended up buying jerker, trones, a pair of listas, a klubbo, two traktors and a couple of thing I've already forgotten the name of, but might have been called globboes or gubbers or buboes. They were chairs anyway. Along the way, we decided against the skrissels, the bokstas, the innerviks and the didriks.

Language and corporate indentity are intimately entwined. I once went to a hamburger joint in Melbourne and asked for a chicken burger only to be told I couldn't have one unless I ordered an Oink Oink Double.

The sheer size of Ikea, however, takes this to a whole new level. Within an hour of being inside the place, I find myself asking question like: "Do you remember where the leksvik was? Was it over near the summera, or back by the gorms?" And the strange thing is that my companions understand perfectly, having attained easy fluency in Ikea-ese.

By the time We start to head to the checkout, via the kitchen implement section and the towering werehouse racks, I am completely mesmerised, totally in Willy Wonda-land, wondering only where the Oompah Loompahs have got to.

Actually, that's not true. I am also wondering where that clock came from, and those doormats and that rather sexy stainless steel colander. You don't remember picking any of them up, but there are, in the big yellow carry bag, gleaming and foreign.

It could be night outside: it could be noon. Time means nothing. All that matters is pushing a luggage trolley up and down the racks hunting for boxes containing things called bippers and luffers and quinquists and snot. And then all that matters is paying for the stuff, organising delivery and getting the hell out of the nearest pub, where stools are called stools, tables tables and referring to faktums or forhojas will earn me only a funny look from the barman.

Yet. even on the exit side of the checkouts, the wonder and mystery of Ikea is not at end. Exhausted and dehydrated, I spied what appeared to be a small snack bar near the loading bay doors.

Miracle of miracles! The place sold beer!

So, OK, I don't think I was supposed to crack the can and drink it on the spot, but nobody seemed to mind. Perhaps the staff understood that it was an act of necessity for a befuddled city boy so shopped - out he could no longer tell his oppli from his jarna..........

Till then my dear friend, wish you here with me, and we could have glass or two together and could even gossip about the boys we met last night...... It's only my wishfull thinking.............