The Year of Living Danishly (34 page)

Once Lego Man and I have emerged from the initial fug of newborn madness (who am I kidding, I'm still in it. Any strange typos are because I'm writing at the same time as jogging an eight-week-old over my shoulder while he vomits and defecates simultaneously, occasionally kicking out a few rogue characters on the laptop keyboard), we Go Out. It is my birthday and we make a reservation for lunch. This requires military-style planning and five trips to and from the car to make sure that all the equipment needed to survive remotely with a baby has been packed, checked and double-checked. Once this has been accomplished, I realise that I'm still wearing pyjamas so go back inside. I throw on an outfit that I hope says: ‘
I may well be covered in baby milk/bodily fluids, but I'm OK with that.
'

We drive to The Big Town, park the car, and then spend several minutes reminding each other how to assemble the pram. Fortunately, the day is mild and the sun is threatening to peek through the clouds, so for once, the elements aren't against us. Little Red doesn't wake when I lift him from the car seat and gently lower him into his bassinet, pulling a hat over that still-staggering head of licking flames and wriggling mittens onto tiny hands before tucking them under blankets. As we walk to the restaurant, I smile fondly at the porny pony fountain that I haven't seen for a couple of months now and then catch sight of myself in the toy-shop window. I take in the girl with the scarf wound around her neck, the Wayfarers on to disguise under-eye bags and the messy topknot, to keep hair clear of little pulling fists. I'm amused to note that I look very Danish. But I also look relaxed. Like the kind of person I always hoped I'd be when I grew up.

I'd thought I was doing all the right things to get to this point in my former life – working hard to be successful and trying to please everyone. But I never seemed to succeed nearly enough to make all the effort worthwhile. I felt tired, hungry (often literally) and ephemeral, blown about by the currents of whatever was going on around me. But now I feel safe, secure and solid. In a good way, and quite apart from any post-pregnancy pounds I'm carrying. I'm content and, yes, happy. I'd say I was a nine out of ten (I'm still waiting to be crowned queen of Sylvania-land).

I loop my hand through Lego Man's arm as he pushes the pram up the small incline to the restaurant. He's busy telling me how he's already stockpiling Duplo – Lego's little sibling – for our son, assuring me that it's ‘an investment'. I tell him that I can see my toes again in a stationary position. This is about the level of our sparkling repartee at present (did I mention the whole lack of sleep thing?). I start thinking about what I'm going to order and can almost feel the bubbles of the prosecco I've promised myself exploding on my tongue.

‘So next year,' Lego Man starts, and I realise I might have missed something after the bit about the Duplo.

‘Next year? Yes, well…'

It's decision time and Lego Man is looking at me hopefully. He laid his cards on the table months ago and I know that he'd like to stay. Now, it's down to me. I look around at The Big Town's new Latin Quarter that we're booked into for lunch and spot an Asian supermarket and an Italian deli I haven't seen before.
I could live in a country with snegles, dim sum and decent Parma Ham?
It's almost too good to be true. The sun is shining now and our son is napping. As a new parent, life doesn't get much better than this.

‘I suppose Denmark's not so bad,' I say.

A slow smile starts to creep over Lego Man's stubbled cheeks (he's growing a beard for his paternity leave – everyone needs a project), but he still wants to hear me say it: ‘So you've enjoyed your year of living Danishly?'

‘It's been
o-kay
,' I concede.

‘Just “OK”?' he asks. I shrug and his face falls slightly.

‘But just to check, I think we should try making it two…'

He beams. Then he puts the brake on the pram like a responsible parent and gives me a bear hug. This is still slightly painful but I tell him I appreciate the sentiment.

We're staying. The Nordic dream may have its flaws but Denmark is still the best place for us, right now. And I'm excited about what the next twelve months will have in store.

We arrive at the restaurant and we're shown to our table. It's by the window in a sheltered courtyard and Little Red is still sleeping. So we leave the pram outside.

Top ten tips for living Danishly

OK, so I can't drag everyone to Denmark and none of us have control over our chromosomal make-up (yet). But there are a few things Danes do differently that can be put into practice wherever you are.

1. Trust (more)

This is the number one reason the Danes are so damned happy – so try it. You'll feel better and save yourself unnecessary stress, and trusting the people around you can make them behave better, so it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

2. Get
hygge

Remember the simple pleasures in life – light a candle, make yourself a cup of coffee, eat some pastries. See? You're feeling better already.

3. Use your body

Cycle, run, jump, dance, have sex. Shake whatever you've got. Using your body not only releases get-happy endorphins, it'll also make you look hotter, Danish-style.

4. Address the aesthetics

Make your environment as beautiful as you can. Danes do, and it engenders a respect for design, art and their everyday surroundings. Remember the broken window syndrome, where places that look uncared for just get worse? The reverse also applies.

5. Streamline your options

If living in Sticksville has taught me one thing, it's that cutting down on choice can take some of the hassle out of modern life. Too many options for things to do, places to eat (ha!) or what to wear (hello London wardrobe) can feel like a burden rather than a benefit. Danes specialise in stress-free simplicity and freedom within boundaries.

6. Be proud

Find something that you, or folk from your home town, are really good at and Own It. Celebrate success, from football to tiddlywinks (or crab racing). Wave flags and sing at every available opportunity.

7. Value family

National holidays become bonding bootcamps in Denmark and family comes first in all aspects of Danish living. Reaching out to relatives and regular rituals can make you happier, so give both a go. Your family not much cop? Start your own with friends or by using tip #3 (the sex part).

8. Equal respect for equal work

Remember, there isn't ‘women's work' and ‘men's work', there's just ‘
work
'. Caregivers are just as crucial as breadwinners and neither could survive without the other. Both types of labour are hard, brilliant and important, all at the same time.

9. Play

Danes love an activity for its own sake, and in the land of Lego, playing is considered a worthwhile occupation at any age. So get building. Create, bake, even draw your own Noel Edmonds caricature. Just do and make things as often as possible (the messier the better).

10. Share

Life's easier this way, honest, and you'll be happier too according to studies. Can't influence government policy to wangle a Danish-style welfare state? Take some of your cake round to a neighbour's, or invite someone over to share your
hygge
and let the warm, fuzzy feelings flow.

Acknowledgements

I am immensely grateful to all the experts who generously gave up their time to speak to some strange Brit. I continue to be humbled, amused, inspired and invigorated by all the things you taught me.

Thank you to my agent, Anna Power, for having the best superhero name in publishing and for endless encouragement and cake. And to my fabulous editor, Kate Hewson at Icon, for her expertise, enthusiasm and fun cat facts.

Big thanks to our Danish crew for their support and sanity – Team Vejle (Tara, Liberty, Henrik, Chesney, Fee, Kath, Hjarne, Christine, Fen, Jules, Ana, Matthew, Craig, the choir); Team Billund (Frauke, Stephen, Nichole, Jackie, Karina, Cindy) and Team Aarhus (Sophie, Mick, Emmerys Bakery…).

Team GB, you have been brilliant as ever with the ‘you can do it!' texts and Cadbury parcels (especially Chrissy, Emily, Sarah, Joe, Caroline, Lucy, Sally, Kate and the Gail Plait Gang).

A huge ‘thank you' to my family, in particular Rita, John and Andrew for their intrepid expeditions to Sticksville. And to my mother, for just being her.

None of this would have been possible without the serious-looking blond chap and his love of Lego bringing us to Denmark in the first place. Thank you for forcing me out of my comfort zone whenever necessary, and hurrah for Danish paternity leave, without which the contents of this book would have remained the deranged scribblings of a sleep-deprived new parent.