We are in the market for a couple of new sofas.

One might think that a simple task. Not so.

First of all, despite never regretting a single day of our decision back in the early noughties to escape Bankrupt Blighty as economic refugees, I am resigned to the fact that the French have absolutely no concept whatsoever of customer service. Even if you found a French person who did know what it meant, then they wouldn't tell you.

Having suffered the mind numbing obfuscation of a couple of French furniture websites and opting not to spend fifteen thousand Euros, plus 'End of life Environmental Destruction Surcharge' (mine or the sofas'?) on something as simple as a canapé (French for something or someone soft to sit upon). I thus considered it might be far less expensive to buy a new Renault Clio and rip the back seats out of it. Then throwing the rest of the vehicle away. Eventually though I decided a trip to IKEA in Rennes might be in order.

However, a catch. IKEA in Rennes do not offer the same products as IKEA in Lyon. And IKEA in Lyon do not offer the same products as IKEA in Paris. Why would they? French posteriors, sitting for the use of in Rennes, obviously differ from those in Lyon and those in Lyon most probably a different shape to those in Paris. Not an area of Market Research I have hitherto studied. Though I might be persuaded to change my mind. Ladies please form an orderly queue.

Back in 1984, and then living in Singapore, I purchased a not inexpensive settee from one of IKEA's first offshore outlets established there in the same year. We still have it today and in almost serviceable condition. Apart from the attentions of three or four generations of deliciously delinquent but lovable cats intent upon trying to open up the upholstery with their razor sharp claws. Presumably trying to establish whether anything tastier than Whiskas' 'Mouse and Banana Flavour' was hiding inside.

Anyway, next week I plan to embark upon a few weeks of training in preparation for an ascent of IKEA in Rennes' assault course. Last time I entered their emporium, upon completing three fruitless hours trying to find the exit, I met a Japanese soldier who pinned me to the wall and demanded I tell him whether or not the war was over.

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