I hate IKEA. If the lack of natural daylight and prescribed routes through the store don’t turn you into a quivering emotional wreck, once you get your homogenous flat-packed MDF bookshelf home, you have the instruction booklet to contend with. Building your own furniture could be a blast; there’s potential for the process to be fun and challenging. But instead, thanks to IKEA, you find yourself counting 324 wooden pegs, starting again at least four times because you dared to deviate from the ‘process’, and growing a deep, acidic resentment for those smug little bubble-men in the illustrations. Jane Barrett and Camilla Arnold’s book left me feeling the same way.