Chris pointed out to me that our lovable madcap Saviour has been at it again, this time manifesting himself in the wood grain of the door to a “male toilet” at the local branch of Ikea, just outside Glasgow in Braehead. What makes this story unusual among the “face of Jesus seen on freezer/grilled cheese sandwich/burrito/fingerprint” stories is that I was there yesterday afternoon as the news was breaking. I observed no commotion, no rowdy pilgrims, no healings or feedings (and I could’ve used a few loaves — it was dinnertime). In fact, I didn’t see Jesus at all. I probably walked right past him without even noticing. Someone could write a maudlin country song about that, and I’d only ask for a small cut of the royalties.
I had spent £10 on a cab ride to get to Ikea because I needed a work chair for my flat, and I thought I’d pick up a laptop-height table so I could surf comfortably while sitting on the couch. Lacking a car, I had tried to order the items in question online, but o-o-o-o-o-oh no, Scots may not buy from Ikea online. So I telephoned the store, but no-o-o-o-o-o, they may not accept phone orders (you can order by phone from Edinburgh, but there’s a £60 delivery charge). I looked around for alternatives, but I didn’t see the same combination of suitable style and value, so I clenched my teeth and rode out to Braehead. (By the way, I’ve only been inside a motor vehicle twice in the last six weeks: once when I caught a ride from the man who brought the boxes of my personal effects from my office to my flat, and yesterday riding to and from Braehead. It’s weird to go from “driving somewhere pretty much every day” to “hardly ever stepping in a car.”) The cab fares to and from my flat still came in less than the fee for delivering the goods, so I came out ahead — if somewhat frustrated.
To abbreviate an already overlong story, I found Dave and Moses (the table and chair for which I was looking), and made one impulse buy:
There are still a few battle-scarred veterans of the days when the world of blogs could be set ablaze by controversies over the relative merits of soap-dispensing dish scrubbers. But sentimental guy that I am, a tear bedewed my eye as I spotted Ikea’s answer to the iconic Dishmatique, and I had to pick one up. Tonight, when I do the dishes, I will raise it high and laud the soapy name of Delacour!