It’s Sunday and I’m in a suburban Ikea on the verge of tears. Perhaps this is not so surprising – who among us hasn’t approached emotional breakdown navigating the labyrinthine homewares store? But these are tears of joy. And no, it’s not because I’ve nabbed one of the cult-status Djungelskog plushies; it’s because of the five people singing at me from two metres away.
I’m in the outdoor plants and furniture section, watching The Marriage of Figaro – or a version of it, in which Figaro and his bride-to-be, Susanna, work in floor sales and their philandering boss is the store manager. It’s probably the last place I’d expect to discover the sublime beauty of Mozart’s opera. Half an hour earlier, my fellow audience members and I – who were emailed the secret location 24 hours earlier – were eating meatballs and mash in the canteen.
