Read Online The Year of Living Danishly by Helen Russell - Free Book Online Page B

motto: Why think rationally when you can add a little drama?) ‘And shut that door! It’s bloody freezing!’
    â€˜Thanks for the warm welcome,’ was Lego Man’s response, before dropping his man-bag and explaining that the office was virtually empty by 4pm. ‘Most people with kids had cleared their desks to go and pick them up from school or daycare by 3pm.’
    â€˜ Three ?’
    â€˜Uhuh.’
    â€˜Everyone just leaves work really early? No one competes to be the last at their desk? Or gets takeout to pull an all-nighter?’
    He shrugs: ‘Not that I’ve seen.’
    This was mind-blowing. In London, if we were both home by 7pm in time for The Archers , it was a cause for celebration. More often than not, we only saw each other at weekends or encountered the other as a warm body in bed in the small hours, having worked late or been out with friends.
    But here, 4pm is the new 7pm. 4pm is rush hour , in Denmark. I haven’t usually begun the meat of my afternoon’s work by 4pm, having at least another few hours left in me. And yet he was back at home, wanting to put on loud music, chat and clatter things.
    I’ve just about got my head around this new state of affairs and Lego Man’s early arrivals when I hear a car crunch onto the drive at 2.30pm . The sound of the door handle turning gives me such a shock that I knock over a glass of water while speaking to a time management expert in New York. I have to pretend to her that the resultant cursing is coughing and that the madly barking dog is interference on the transatlantic Skype line.
    â€˜Well, thank you so much for your time,’ I say as I scribble some final notes in poor shorthand. ‘I won’t keep you any longer!’ I add slightly manically in order to be heard over the din of the dog, whimpering with excitement at the return of his master, and Lego Man, bringing his characteristic drafts and noise into the house. He is affectionately mauled by the dog, buying me a few moments to consider my decidedly dressed-down look. Perhaps I could pull off the early-afternoon-PJ-lounging-outfit as an homage to Hugh Hefner…?
    â€˜You’re home early!’ I couldn’t sound guiltier if he’d caught me in flagrante with Sarah Lund’s series three love interest. (Google him. A treat.)
    â€˜Yes. Turns out everyone leaves even earlier on a Friday.’ He sticks his head around the door and takes in my dishevelled state. ‘You’re not dressed! Are you OK? Do you feel ill?’
    I think about faking something non-life-threatening and fleeting, then buckle under the pressure. ‘No,’ I reply, sheepishly. ‘It’s, er, for a feature.’ This is a lie.
    Lego Man looks around at the chaos of plates, mugs and evidence of bakery-based snacking all around me. ‘What’s the feature? “How slob is the new black”?’
    â€˜I’ll have you know these pyjamas are Stella McCartney,’ I say, weakly, before trying to change the subject. ‘So how was your … morning ?’
    â€˜Good, thank you. I’ve been learning about Danish “work–life balance”.’
    â€˜Haven’t you just – you’re home at lunch time !’
    Lego Man ignores this. ‘Apparently on a Friday, you don’t need to be in until half eight and then there’s—’ here he makes a strange guttural sound, ‘ Mooooaaaarrrnnnsssmullllll .’
    â€˜I’m sorry, what?’
    â€˜It’s written “ morgenmad ” and means “morning food”,’ he explains. He’s already mastered some key food-based vocabulary and we haven’t even started Danish lessons yet. I’m a little envious. ‘Everyone in the office takes it in turns to bake and bring in rolls and pastries. One of the guys was up at 4am to bake today’s buns.’
    â€˜Good grief! And there are such good bakeries