The Year of Living Danishly (5 page)

‘For a young, socially democratic government, it was crucial to present quality design as part of the residential regeneration plan,' explains Anne-Louise. Big talents like architect and designer Arne Jacobsen (of the Egg Chair fame), lighting legend Poul Henningsen and furniture makers Hans Wegner and Finn Juhl made names for themselves and brought Danish design to an international audience. I ask if the average Dane appreciates how great their nation's design is. Anne-Louise thinks about this for a moment.

‘If you stood in the street and asked someone, they might not have a reflective relationship with culture and design – but this is because they haven't
had
to. It's internalised in the consciousness. We are simply used to having nice surroundings,' she says. ‘It starts from the very beginning of life. Children come to school and interact with quality architecture and furniture, and so from an early age they develop an understanding that functional yet beautiful design is essential to realising the good life. Then when they grow up and work in offices or public spaces, most Danes experience a high-quality environment combining function and design.' I can see what she means. The public spaces I've seen so far have been heavily invested in, with architectural flourishes and quirky design features everywhere (porny pony fountain aside).

‘And of course, the weather plays a part too,' says Anne-Louise. ‘We're inside so much during the long winters that we invest more in our environment. You're spending so much time at home, it may as well be nice!' And can having a designer home really make you happy? Anne-Louise thinks so: ‘To my mind, there is a clear relationship between your aesthetic environment and how you feel.' Being surrounded by beautiful design all day long at the museum certainly makes her happy, she tells me. So how would she rate herself out of ten? ‘I'd say I was a nine,' says Anne-Louise, before correcting herself. ‘Actually, I can't think of anything else that would make me happier right now, so maybe I'm a ten!'

Feeling inspired to make a happy, Danish-design-inspired home, we now just need to decide which of Judgey Face's recommendations to go for. We've whittled the list down to two: a flat in ‘The Big Town' near the porny pony (my choice), or a house by the sea (Lego Man's preference) in the grounds of an old red-brick institutional-looking building that Judgey Face informs us used to be a hospital.

Lego Man loves the countryside and vast sweeping landscapes marred by as few people as possible, something I put down to his upbringing in rural Scotland and the Yorkshire Moors. In contrast, my idea of getting back to nature is a stroll by the river in Hammersmith. Unsurprisingly, we're finding it hard to agree.

‘Living here is never going to be like London,' Lego Man argues, ‘so what's the point in living in a town that's rubbish in comparison to the world-class city we're used to? [People of Jutland, I apologise on his behalf.] We might as well make the most of this opportunity and live by the sea!'
It's all very well for him
, I think.
He'll be going to an office every day and I'll be stuck out here working from home with nothing but the dog and the waves for company
.

We'd talked about living by the sea one day, but in my head this was a) when we were about 100 and b) in a smart terraced house wedged between a chichi café and perhaps an artisan bread shop in Brighton or Hove or somewhere. The sun would always be shining and we would have lots of visitors. Our seaside home was never, even in my most melancholy fantasies, a former hospital in rural Denmark. In winter.

And yet, somehow he wears me down. Or bribes me with the promise of a lifetime of pastries. Or gets me drunk. Or
something
. Because the next morning I find we've agreed and we get an email from the shipping company confirming that they'll be delivering all our possessions to Sticksville-on-Sea next Tuesday.

Four strapping Vikings unload 132 boxes from a shipping container before taking their shoes off and laying down rugs to protect the wooden flooring as they unpack our belongings, passing judgement on them as they go. Of a vase, ‘I like this. The other ones, not so much' and of a painting, cryptically: ‘Was this expensive?' ‘No.' ‘Good.'

The boxes have been coded according to what room they came from and I'm delighted to find that the contents of my London wardrobe have been labelled ‘Lady Russell Dresses' (I'm hoping more people will address me by my official title in future). These are taken courteously to the bedroom where I later discover that, less courteously, the contents of my pants drawer has been liberally spread over the newly assembled bed and my navy lace bra is missing. But other than potential lingerie pilfering they are the most polite, articulate, over-educated removal men we've ever encountered and ask us multiple questions about coalition politics, what we think of David Cameron's hair (which, I learn, is a source of great hilarity over here) and our attitude towards the EU.

Once they've left, we both make resolutions to be better informed about the state of EU politics so we don't get shown up in future, and start rearranging our possessions and finding homes for things we'd forgotten we owned. It's then that I realise with horror how filthy everything is.

‘Do you think it's from being in transit?' I ask hopefully, trying to buff the murky, grey tinge out of our white bookcase.

‘Could be,' Lego Man looks sceptical. ‘Or it could be that living in a lower ground floor flat we just never noticed how dirty everything was.'

I tell him I prefer my version and we set about soaping down visible stains, wondering whether we'll ever measure up to the standards of house-proud Danes. After a few hours of scrubbing, we have semi-clean furniture, but there isn't nearly enough of it to fill the new space. It turns out that the kind of space you can afford when you live in central London only necessitates about half as much furniture as your average Danish home. As the sun starts to set at around 3pm, we discover that we're also being plunged into darkness. It's customary to take not only your light bulbs with you when you move in Denmark, but also the
fittings
. There's not a ceiling rose in sight and I haven't a clue how to begin to tackle the wriggle of live wires that appear to be poking out from the ceiling at various points.

So we make tea by torchlight and resign ourselves to the fact that we're going to have to go shopping. Lego Man is delighted. For an outdoorsy, DIY-handy Yorkshireman, he has always been surprisingly obsessed by interior design. After years of ‘passing' and allowing everyone to presume that the
Livingetc
subscription and our attractive home were down to me, he finally came out – mood boards, scrapbooks, the lot – and admitted his secret passion. Now he's hoping that a year of living Danishly will allow him to express this more fully, so that he can be out, proud
and
stylishly lit. He's already very taken with the Nordic aesthetic and decides he wants to populate our new home with all manner of eye-wateringly priced designer items. Concerned that we may never be able to afford
snegles
again if I let Lego Man go all-out, I call up an interior design expert to get a better idea of the essentials worth buying to make our new home
hygge
.

Charlotte Ravnholt, of Denmark's biggest interiors magazine,
Bo Bedre
, suggests keeping it simple. ‘There's no need to go crazy buying lots of things to start with to get the Danish look,' she says. ‘The more typical thing here would be to start with a few key items and mix and match them with what you've already got.'

This is encouraging. So what do we need first?

‘Well, we use a lot of natural materials in Danish homes, like wood and leather, and we tend to have lots of lamps. In most of the world, lamps tend to be in the middle of the room, but here we loop the cords to position them and create pools of light or new areas of
hygge
, or cosiness. Then there are also pendant lamps, floor lamps and table lamps that you need to think about.'

I scribble all this down on a Post-It. Lego Man, who is craning to hear our conversation, leans in closer so that I have to swat him away before writing:

‘She says we only need A FEW KEY ITEMS.'

I set down the pen to give Charlotte my full attention again. When I glance back at the pad, I see Lego Man has added a ‘
' to the end of my message and wandered off in a huff to find more ways to spend money we don't yet have on things we don't really need for the home we don't own.

I ask Charlotte about
hygge
and she tells me that Danish homes typically have throws or blankets on the sofa for extra cosiness, as well as lots of cushions.

‘Danes even have separate summer and winter cushions,' she tells me. ‘There's a big market for them here – when money's tight and you can't quite stretch to a new piece of furniture, you can spend 500 kroner on a great cushion that will make your room look fresh.' Upwards of £50, or $90, for a
cushion
? This still seems pretty steep to me, and I wonder whether I'm too tight for this oh-so-stylish country.

‘So does the average Dane spend a lot on their home?' I ask.

‘I think we probably do prioritise spending on design,' says Charlotte. ‘Figures from before the financial crisis showed that we were the nation that spent the most money on furniture in the world, per capita. Plus Danes really value good design, craft and quality. We want to buy something we can use for many years and pass down to our children.' She mentions a few of the big names in Danish design, from Arne Jacobsen to Finn Juhl and Poul Henningsen – names I'm vaguely familiar with having spoken to Anne-Louise and from the pages of Lego Man's deco-porn. I'd struggle to identify their work or pick a Poul Henningsen lamp out of a line-up at this stage, but Charlotte tells me that most Danes are pretty clued up on their designers.

‘Everyone in Denmark knows who Arne Jacobsen is and about his work – not just design fans,' she says. The idea that design is part of the national consciousness helps me to understand why the Danish homes we've seen look as though they're straight out of a newspaper lifestyle supplement. I learn that Poul Henningsen's lamps are so popular here that 50 per cent of Danes have
at least
one in their home. ‘People feel good about supporting Danish brands,' Charlotte explains. ‘They want something that's been hand-made here. Our design is something we celebrate and can be proud of, so yes, we do spend on it. And since the 1960s when more Danes began owning their own homes and both men and women worked, we've been able to
afford
to spend more money on furniture and design.'

Conscious of Lego Man listening in and champing at the bit to bring our ‘emergency' UK credit card into play, I ask Charlotte to recommend five key Danish design touches that will sate my in-house Scandophile and help make our home
hygge
. She rises, stylishly, to the challenge.

‘I'd start with a great wooden dining table for your daily meals, as well as talking and relaxing around,' she begins. I'm just feeling smug about the oak six-seater we already own when she adds, ‘And in Denmark this should normally have at least eight chairs so you can have lots of people round.' Shit. We're clearly not sociable enough. ‘Two more chairs,' I write down, ‘and possibly a bigger table.' Lego Man's eyes light up.

‘Then I'd invest in a hand-crafted chair like an Arne Jacobsen or a Hans Wegner or a Børge Mogensen,' Charlotte goes on. ‘Your average Danish home might also have a designer lamp like Poul Henningsen's PH or an Arne Jacobsen AJ from Louis Poulsen. Then there's the Kubus candleholder – this is typically Danish and a lot of homes have this. And then finally, well, I'd probably go for some Royal Copenhagen dining plates,' she adds. I look over at our off-white Ikea crockery in a pile next to the dishwasher and see that we have work to do.

‘Right,' I reply brightly, resolving to un-Ikea our home. ‘And all this great design really makes Danes happy?' I ask. Lego Man already has an arm in a coat and is searching for the car keys to begin his retail therapy.

‘I think so, yes,' says Charlotte. ‘When we surround ourselves with quality design, it influences our mood. If our surroundings are nice, we feel cosy and safe. It makes us happier.'

I ask if she's happy herself. ‘Oh yes, I'd say a nine out of ten – there's always a little room for something more.'

‘Like what?' I can't help asking.

‘That's personal,' she replies. I worry I've offended her by prying but she soon relents and reveals all. ‘I'd like to live by the ocean and I'd like my boyfriend to propose. Then I'd be a ten.'

I thank Charlotte and say goodbye. Then I look at my husband, now wrestling a boot onto a foot, silhouetted against a panoramic view of a picture-perfect, dusky pink seascape.
Maybe I should start my happiness project by trying to be more grateful for what I've got
, I think, fondly. Then Lego Man writes
‘HURRY UP!!!'
on a Post-It and sticks it to my forehead. The bubble bursts and I swiftly dismiss the idea of spending the next twelve months cherishing his every wet-towels-on-the-bed and inability-to-locate-the-laundry-basket foible. Instead, I grab my coat and go.