If you are the sort of person who lives under the impression that laminate flooring, wall mounted television screens, garlic holders, pictures of London in the rain and smelly candles are the pinnacle of good taste, there's a very good chance you are a regular visitor to IKEA.

Yesterday morning, I decided that I would take my life in my hands and comply with Lady P.'s wishes to take a drive to IKEA in Thurrock. After anaesthetizing myself with a couple of stiff cognacs, we left Piggott Place eager to find out for ourselves why so many of our family and friends regard IKEA as the Mecca of home improvement.

Having successfully battled our way under the River Thames, we eventually found ourselves in the IKEA car park. After quietly whispering my thanks to God for our safe arrival, my good lady wife took my arm and dragged me from the relative safety of our new motor and on through the revolving door to Swedish paradise. Once inside, my heart sank as Lady P. looked at me and said, 'Darling, we're doing husband and wife things'. How dreadfully nice.

Before I could focus my good eye on the new surroundings, an overly helpful young chap wearing a garish blue and yellow t-shirt rushed at us brandishing a rather large, yellow plastic carrier bag. I dutifully accepted the receptacle and smiled, grateful that he left it at that and didn't follow it up by trying to sell us a conservatory, double glazing or sponsorship of a third world donkey.

Once inside the store proper, I was immediately reminded of all those dire house makeovers I've been invited to in recent years.

It's like the odd occasion that the sister-in-law you've seen neither hide nor hair for months, suddenly invites you over to view her new front room. Having practised your fixed smile in front of the mirror for a couple of hours and argued with the wife over the fact that the only clean socks in the drawer are the ones with the big holes in the toes, you finally arrive at sis's. After hugs and kisses at the front door, one is then sheepishly requested to leave one's shoes in the porch so as not to tarnish the new hallway laminate. Darn those socks! Please.

Once the obligatory tour of chez Bland's IKEA replica showroom is complete, one is then treated to a 'come dine with me' dinner of prawn cocktail starter, followed by main course of lamb shanks with watery gravy, rounded off with a dessert of tinned fruit and cream.

If you are really lucky, you might be presented with a mug of Gold Blend and a couple of After Eights as you discuss the new décor and compliment your hostess on her good taste - whilst slying glancing at your spouse's watch and longing to sit in your battered armchair back at home, sweet home.

All very Essex, I must say.

But I digress. As my wife and I made our way through IKEA and its many departments, we began to realise how unimaginative common people really are. As we rubbed shoulders with the hand holding loved-up soon-to-be married couples, scruffy refugees from Dartford on a day out (complete with screaming offspring, naturally) and greasy haired, forty-something male divorcees looking for ways to smarten up their shag pads with leather settees and artificial tiger skin rugs, it didn't take us long to decide that IKEA is the place for those who lack a sense of individuality.

Everything about IKEA is fake, facetious and false - just like the customers. The furniture on sale is all straight lines, beech and boring. The kitchen equipment is stainless steel, sterile and staid. Even the robust, yellow, lurid carrier bags that festoon the huge wire baskets - that are never more than ten feet away - say, 'Congratulations! You're now one of us! It's now time to cast any concept of individuality you may harbour, well and truly away!. Welcome to The Land of Bland!'

My favourite armchair in Piggott Place is old and has - like me - seen better days. But it's comfortable, fits me perfectly, and could tell a few stories of its own if it had a mouth.

The desk on which I write my highly imaginative, informative and amusing blogs is marred with ink, red wine stains and cigar burns.

My bookshelves are somewhat the worse for wear they but play host to the many treasured, dusty and beloved tomes I have collected over the years. When I visit my library and run my index finger across the spines of volumes that I've read many times over or have yet to peruse, the warm glow of home, sweetest home, is one that cannot be delivered in a flatpack from Essex.

You see, a house isn't necessarily a home, just as a home shouldn't be a replica of an IKEA showroom - no matter what the expense.