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Authors: Helen Russell
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seems like money well spent. I point at another line of digits and ask what it relates to.
âThis is for fitting your summer tyres and storing your winter tyres in the tyre hotel from spring.â The tyres get their own hotel in Denmark? My God, living standards really are through the roof.
âAnd do I really need this?â I ask.
âWe recommend that tyres are stored somewhere secure and fitted by someone who knows what theyâre doing,â is his reply.
âRightâ¦â I wonder whether I might be able to make a saving by using a) Lego Man and b) the shed. I decide to risk it.
Sales Man points out another number: âThen this is for the number plateââ
ââThe number plateâs not included?â
âNo!â he sounds faintly amused. âOtherwise everyone would know how old your car was!â
âAre you serious?â
His smile drops, leaving me in no doubt that he is entirely serious. âEvery driver gets new plates with numbers and letters generated at random.â
Equality, it turns out, is so important in Denmark that the authorities donât even want anyone judged by the age of their car. This seems commendable, but Iâm pretty sure that anyone with half a brain will guess that my mobility tomato isnât the latest in high-end automotive design. And I rather resent having to pay to pretend otherwise.
âThen thereâs also registration tax, green tax, countervailing taxâ¦â I can almost feel Allan with two âlâsâ disapproving glare and imagine him shaking his head with disappointment as I sign swiftly and leave.
Over the next few days, I discover that the mobility tomato rattles if it goes above 70km per hour, makes a high-pitched bleeping noise unless I have Danish public radio tuned in and has windscreen wipers that merely move the dirt from side to side, smearing it across my field of view. But itâs mine. All mine. The adventures start here.
----
Things Iâve learned this month:
Denmark is really, really cold in January
Money may not buy you happiness, but it can buy you cars, candlesticks and exceedingly good cakes
Owls are LOUD
Being an immigrant is not for sissies
2. February
Forgetting the 9â5
One of the advantages to going freelance, everyone told me, was that I could work in my pyjamas and wear slippers on the commute from bed to the laptop. After a decade of four-inch heels and dry-clean-only dresses, this seemed a bizarre and alien concept â a strange new world that I was interested to hear about but had no real intention of visiting. A bit like Las Vegas. And yet, just four weeks into my new life, I find myself merrily tapping away at the keyboard in a printed silk two-piece with an elasticated waistband at 2.30 in the afternoon. I tell myself itâs not so bad because a) itâs Friday; b) itâs pretty much dark outside All THE TIME here in winter, so nightwear seems appropriate; and c) Iâm doing phone interviews with people in the US and itâs morning there. But basically I am a disgrace. I vow that when the clock strikes 4.30pm Iâll shower, dress and maybe even brush my hair. Like a proper grown-up . Half past four has become the cut-off point for any kind of slovenliness that I wouldnât want anyone else to see. This is because Lego Man has taken to arriving home around about this frankly ludicrous hour.
Heâd caught me off guard to begin with. A couple of weeks before as I was tapping away at my laptop in my pyjamas, a rush of icy air surged through the front door as it swung open and there, barely distinguishable against the soul-destroying darkness, stood a figure.
âHello?â I asked, alert lest an intruder was entering the house or the Mr Beards were back.
âItâs me,â Lego Man replied.
âWhat are you doing here?â Was he sick? Had he lost his job? Had Lego HQ been evacuated under missile attack? (My
âThis is for fitting your summer tyres and storing your winter tyres in the tyre hotel from spring.â The tyres get their own hotel in Denmark? My God, living standards really are through the roof.
âAnd do I really need this?â I ask.
âWe recommend that tyres are stored somewhere secure and fitted by someone who knows what theyâre doing,â is his reply.
âRightâ¦â I wonder whether I might be able to make a saving by using a) Lego Man and b) the shed. I decide to risk it.
Sales Man points out another number: âThen this is for the number plateââ
ââThe number plateâs not included?â
âNo!â he sounds faintly amused. âOtherwise everyone would know how old your car was!â
âAre you serious?â
His smile drops, leaving me in no doubt that he is entirely serious. âEvery driver gets new plates with numbers and letters generated at random.â
Equality, it turns out, is so important in Denmark that the authorities donât even want anyone judged by the age of their car. This seems commendable, but Iâm pretty sure that anyone with half a brain will guess that my mobility tomato isnât the latest in high-end automotive design. And I rather resent having to pay to pretend otherwise.
âThen thereâs also registration tax, green tax, countervailing taxâ¦â I can almost feel Allan with two âlâsâ disapproving glare and imagine him shaking his head with disappointment as I sign swiftly and leave.
Over the next few days, I discover that the mobility tomato rattles if it goes above 70km per hour, makes a high-pitched bleeping noise unless I have Danish public radio tuned in and has windscreen wipers that merely move the dirt from side to side, smearing it across my field of view. But itâs mine. All mine. The adventures start here.
----
Things Iâve learned this month:
Denmark is really, really cold in January
Money may not buy you happiness, but it can buy you cars, candlesticks and exceedingly good cakes
Owls are LOUD
Being an immigrant is not for sissies
2. February
Forgetting the 9â5
One of the advantages to going freelance, everyone told me, was that I could work in my pyjamas and wear slippers on the commute from bed to the laptop. After a decade of four-inch heels and dry-clean-only dresses, this seemed a bizarre and alien concept â a strange new world that I was interested to hear about but had no real intention of visiting. A bit like Las Vegas. And yet, just four weeks into my new life, I find myself merrily tapping away at the keyboard in a printed silk two-piece with an elasticated waistband at 2.30 in the afternoon. I tell myself itâs not so bad because a) itâs Friday; b) itâs pretty much dark outside All THE TIME here in winter, so nightwear seems appropriate; and c) Iâm doing phone interviews with people in the US and itâs morning there. But basically I am a disgrace. I vow that when the clock strikes 4.30pm Iâll shower, dress and maybe even brush my hair. Like a proper grown-up . Half past four has become the cut-off point for any kind of slovenliness that I wouldnât want anyone else to see. This is because Lego Man has taken to arriving home around about this frankly ludicrous hour.
Heâd caught me off guard to begin with. A couple of weeks before as I was tapping away at my laptop in my pyjamas, a rush of icy air surged through the front door as it swung open and there, barely distinguishable against the soul-destroying darkness, stood a figure.
âHello?â I asked, alert lest an intruder was entering the house or the Mr Beards were back.
âItâs me,â Lego Man replied.
âWhat are you doing here?â Was he sick? Had he lost his job? Had Lego HQ been evacuated under missile attack? (My
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