Can the English do hygge?

Once all the new year shenanigans are behind us, we will have the worst of the winter to look forward to. Time, I think, for a hefty dose of hygge and I’m sure you all know what that is. But just in case you don’t, I’ll tell you…

Hygge is a Scandinavian word which roughly equates to getting cozy. I haven’t looked into it in much detail, but I get a general idea of log fires, hot chocolate, hand knitted jumpers and the feeling that outside the wind is howling over a pristine snow scene.

This is a very appealing scenario. Sadly, though, here in southern England we can never be sure of snow scenes, pristine or otherwise. If we DO have snow it is usually in quantities that makes Scandinavians laugh but still causes chaos for commuters, quickly turning into slushy muck for walkers. It also gives us hours and hours of news programmes about travel chaos. Not very cosy.

You see, our weather just can’t make up its mind. One day we have a cold snap so you are ready for lashings of hot chocolate and get in a supply of logs, only to find that, before you can light the fire, it’s gone all mild and damp and the weather is sitting outside the window sulking. You put away the jumpers and go to bed under a summer weight duvet, only to wake in the night freezing cold because the sulky weather has decided to catch you out again and turned icy.

Another day it is dull, grey and depressing and will probably start drizzling relentlessly so that you wish it would just pour down in buckets and get it over with. Sometimes it DOES pour down for days, bringing floods and misery. Again, not very cosy.

As for chestnuts roasting on an open fire at Christmas, you can forget it. It is always mild over Christmas, so you are better off saving your chestnuts for January. Or probably February, just when you are looking for the first signs of spring and hoping the weather might cheer up a bit. But no, it will turn cold just in time to freeze the blossom off the trees, having tricked them into thinking spring has sprung.

When the weather is depressing you need to find a way to compensate for it indoors. I find a cup of tea and a good book helps, and there are plenty of biscuits left over from Christmas to get through (well, it would be wrong to waste them, wouldn’t it). But if anyone has any bright ideas about hygge, English style, I’d be glad to hear them.

Storage Envy

A few of my children live in Scandinavia. Their houses are all easy to clean, well-organised and very, very practical. I can stay with each or any of them for several days and not witness any housework going on, and yet - the houses never seem to get dirty. Well, not my  kind of dirty. This may because, to a man, they all take their shoes off when coming in from outside; a practice I have tried to instigate back in the UK, but have, on the whole, been met with a surprised expression of innocence, 'but they're not dirty'.

Our houses just aren't made the same. Our houses are much more difficult to clean. We don't have as many cupboards to store stuff in. And we don't usually have separate laundry rooms. None of my kids who live abroad have a washing machine in their kitchen. None.

And here we come to the whole point of this post. That photo at the top. Know what it is? Well, yes, shelves with storage containers wall to wall. But here's the thing: There is a special room in the basement of my son's house [a basement so vast, I may add, that it has its own log burner, sauna, washing machine room, drying room and three storage rooms - but I digress] and in this room he has constructed these shelves and lined them with containers to, and I quote,  'Finally going to sort out all the bedding etc'. End quote.

I have serious storage envy. I want a room lined wall to wall with shelves with containers on to sort my bedding. I love sorting. Then everything would be at my fingertips when an unexpected guest turns up.

You want a pillow, or would you prefer two? Certainly they are in this box. A nice fresh-unstained-new quilt would then be extracted from another box. Guest quilt covers would be just above - and oh yes - the pillow cases would be in the box right above the pillows. Obviously. Making up a guest bed would be sheer pleasure. ATM, I am not sure where the nice clean new quilts that I bought especially for guests are.  They could be in youngest daughters cupboards, but I think youngest son probably nicked one and it's on his bed. Ditto new pillows.

And my sheets and covers cupboard? It's in the children's bathroom so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that it is just a muddle, where people keep opening out folded sheets to see if they are singles or doubles. And they never are the ones that are wanted, and they all seem to be fitted sheets which are such a pain to re-fold that the kids usually just roll them in a ball and throw them back in.

So, don't come looking in my cupboards is all I can say. Not till I get a storage system like my son has. But I would probably have to move to Norway to aspire to that...

I’m just thinking, OK?

It’s this time of year when I get sent letters from charities asking for money for the homeless over Christmas. I’ve just dropped another couple in the bin [there was no free pen] and I have to confess to feeling ambiguous about the whole homeless thing.

I grew up in a secure middle-class white grammar school environment where I don’t think I ever saw anybody begging in the street, and if anyone was sleeping on a park bench it was obviously their fault and they should just go and get a job.

It wasn’t till I left home, oh ages later, that I saw a documentary about a poor guy whose wife left him, and long story short, he lost his home and because of that he couldn’t keep his job [nowhere to shower and keep really clean, nowhere to store his paperwork etc. etc.] so he ended up under a bridge with all his worldly possessions in a bag and no future and no hope. It was only then, I kid you not, that I started to realise what homelessness was all about.

So I started to look for people in doorways with sleeping bags and a dog, so I could give them some money and some kindness. And you know what? I couldn’t find any! Where were they all now I had some kindness and money to share? I wanted to do it face to face, avoiding the middle man of organisations – who apparently took most of our donations to pay staff and property and heating and advertising costs.

While I was looking several stories appeared in the papers revealing the ‘homeless’ who were scamming the public.  Apparently, the poor guy in the doorway wasn’t what he seemed. No, he had a comfortable house a few towns away and managed to earn more begging than he could get on benefits or holding down a regular job. He may even have a Mercedes….

Now what to do? I didn’t have that much money, and I would much rather spend it on my own kids and friends than on a potential scammer, especially one who may have a Mercedes. Then a saw a poor homeless guy in the town centre but I didn’t have any money on me. So I decided when I went home that I would go and buy him fish and chips because that way he couldn’t feather his nest with it if he was a scammer, and if he wasn’t, at least he would get a good meal inside him. But when I went back he was gone.

But I found another guy huddled in a doorway when I was out with my husband on a trip. No dog, and no sleeping bag, but even if he was a scammer he looked cold and miserable, so we bought him a hot coffee and a large slice of brownie. I was surprised how nervous I was when I offered it to him, but he said thank you and when we walked away and I looked over my shoulder at least he was drinking the coffee.

Just as I was getting the idea I could do this on a regular basis when I got home, what do I find in my town’s Facebook Group? A HUGE slanging match discussion about a homeless young man who is often seen in our town. Some people wanted to call an ambulance when they found him shaking ‘with cold’, other people who knew him said he was shaking because he was waiting for his next fix and please don’t give him any money because he would spend it on drugs. Give him food then, said other people who chimed in, while the first people had indeed called an ambulance and were waiting for it to come. We tried, said others, but he just refused rudely and said he wanted money. Then others mentioned that help had been called for the poor guy before and he had refused it with an ‘F off’ response, and so it went on and on….

I’m back to square one guys. What to do? At least I can keep a bit of loose change in my pocket to buy a Big Issue if I ever see one. They are supposed to be genuine, aren’t they?

Our last Christmas with Mr Gerald

This is a random picture of a snowman figure. It isn’t Mr Gerald, although it might look like him for all I know. You see, although we have never seen Mr Gerald, we seem to share the house with him. We know this is nonsense, by the way, but stick with me for a while…

Ever since we moved in here, which is now 14 years ago, there have been strange 
things happening...

Sometimes it was just a glimpse of someone or something passing a doorway, just caught out of the side of the eye. 

Sometimes it has been noises coming from upstairs. So you think it must be someone next door upstairs in their house. Then you remember – they don’t have an upstairs next door. 

Or maybe it’s the heating pipes or radiators – but in the summer? 

And on at least one occasion a dark figure seen outside in the garden on a winter night. 
Then there’s been the usual scenario of things mysteriously missing or moved to a different place.

How do we come to have a name for this presence? And how do we know it’s a Mr? Mr Gerald is just what a seven-year-old Debbie called him/it. I have no idea why, but the name has stuck.

I must say though, I have never felt at all creeped out by all this. Actually it’s been handy to have someone to blame when I can’t find my keys or whatever. A convenient Mr Nobody, as it were. The dog isn’t spooked by an alien presence or anything. We’ve got used to having Mr Gerald lurking in the background of life, and we joke about him. But I do hope he isn’t moving house with us in the new year.

So while Saggy is preparing for the Great Christmas Escape, I will be hiding behind the sofa planning a very scaled down last Christmas in the old house. I haven’t quite cancelled it altogether, but Mr Gerald will be the only guest.

Tips for when your parents don’t do as they are told…

Following what Moo was talking about last time – how you are always a child to your parents even when you are an adult; I can’t pass this topic by unless I put my oar in too. My mother says things like ‘I’ve got your favourite bikkies in’ or ‘what you need is a nice hot bath’ to me, a 60-year-old with a senior rail card.

And yet, at the same time you will find that you must take over the task of helping them organise their lives when they are past it need a bit more help, and you have to start issuing instructions back to them. There is this strange see-saw period when the balance of power veers from one side to the other, sometimes in the space of one visit.

After being offered my favourite bicky, I then glance down to find a box of Belgian chocs by the side of each chair. It’s a free country and my parents are consenting adults, so they can eat what they like without input from one of their ‘girlies’, but when they say things like – ‘my blood sugar was up last week, and I have no idea what I am doing wrong’ – I feel obligated to tell them why.

There is a protocol involved in correcting aged parents, and I have a few tips to offer middle-aged children like me who are placed in this position of responsibility.

1.       Never tell them they are in the wrong directly. You just have to accept the fact that however old you are, however many achievements and experiences and qualifications you have amassed since you left their direct care – you are still their kid. Which means, ultimately, that they know better than you do even when they don’t. Ah, yes, there are times when they ask your advice, but I get the feeling that it is because they want to make us feel valued and useful. Kids need all the encouragement their parents can give, and the habit is hard to break.

2.       Give them dietary advice with a pinch of salt. Well, maybe pass on the salt if it is refined table salt. But will they try the Celtic sea salt which retains 84% of the minerals that are lacking in the table salt? Nope. Or believe the recent research on wheat and gluten? Nope, and why? – because their parents ate it and were fine, is why. To be fair, if you are in your 80's and you couldn’t get to the shops easily and wasn’t able to use a computer to order home deliveries, then the whole diet thing would be really hard to get your head round, even when your daughter writes a week’s menu and a shopping list. It’s just too much hassle, and I do understand that guys, I really do.

3.       Give them lifestyle advice with your fingers crossed behind your back. And yet, one day they surprise you. The crafty old so and so’s make sure that they leave just enough time between your advice and their action, so it looks like it was their idea all along. Fair enough. They’ve probably forgotten you said anything anyway [it’s the statins…].

4.       Expect failure with cheerful resignation. Because, at the end of the day why should they listen to you? So, if any of my kids ever read this and want to wade into my life with good advice when I am 80 I think it is fair to say I will be probably retain the right to do my own thing anyway. So kids: all your advice will roll off my back when I enter my dotage and I will live how I please. But at least, I will understand how you feel. And you have my sympathy…

Rice pudding and teaspoons

...or the upside of having elderly parents.

I’ve been spending more time with my parents recently for one reason and another, and I can’t help thinking how lucky I am that they are still around. They enrich the whole family’s life in ways they probably don’t even imagine.

It’s a funny feeling when you are almost at pension age and you spend some time with your parents. Suddenly you are a child again. It doesn’t matter how many years you’ve been an independent adult, how many children you have reared, how many grandchildren you already have, how many exams you have passed or how much of the world you have seen. Parents never leave off being parents, and my parents are no exception.

So if Mum wants to give you petrol money when you’ve taken her to an appointment or something, you don’t refuse. I’ve tried it, but I get The Look. I feel as though I might get sent to my room.

Mum and Dad have always had a gift for seeing the funny side of things, and they have not lost it. Which is just as well, because as you get older there is much more scope for it. For example, due to certain confused online purchasing by Dad, we have been blessed with an overabundance of rice pudding and teaspoons  Well, we couldn’t leave them to munch their way through the quantities of pudding Dad ordered in error. Then there was the teaspoon incident. There are only so many teaspoons a household of two needs. For some reason Dad decided he was short of a teaspoon or two and unintentionally ordered about a million, only to open a drawer after they arrived to find he had plenty of teaspoons already.

Dad’s tendency to systematically label and number things like margarine tubs, eggs and milk bottles has been noted before. These things can’t be easily explained, although Dad has had a good go and we got a good laugh. And always ready to laugh at himself, he has told most of the family how he recently took Mum her breakfast in bed minus the egg which was supposed to be the main feature of the meal.

There’s something I’ve noticed about visiting Mums house. You always come away carrying more than you went in with. No, I don’t mean we’ve been systematically robbing her. I mean she gives you stuff. Even if it’s only old newspapers to wrap your rubbish in or light fires or something. It’s always been like this. I don’t know where she gets all the excess stuff from. I’m not counting Dad’s over-ordered things. Recently Mum has taken to accidentally buying way too much meat for their Sunday dinner. Rather than using it the next day or freezing it or something, I get a phone call on Monday to ask if I can use the best part of a lamb joint (I can!) or a couple of cooked chicken legs or whatever. I’m the lucky offspring who lives round the corner, so I get this quite often. I’m not complaining! She says its for the dog (yeah right) but he doesn’t see much of it. I don’t know that Mum deliberately buys too much in order to have some to feed her offspring with, but it’s the sort of thing she would be likely to do.

I know they won’t mind me mentioning this, but Mum and Dad keep us all entertained with their bickering. They are famous for it anyway, and have even been presented with a house name plaque ‘The Bickeridge’ by their grandchildren. This is proudly displayed outside their front door for all the world to see, so it’s no secret. Recently I was with them when Dad was due to be discharged from a brief hospital visit. Mum was going to help him dress, the curtains were pulled round the bed, so I went out to make a phone call and left them to it. Returning to the ward ten minutes later I got a bit confused and couldn’t remember which bed was Dad’s. But I needn’t have worried – I soon heard them bickering away behind the curtains.

And where would we be without Mum’s fascinating stories of her childhood and her laugh aloud tales of characters she has met? Yes, I count myself very lucky indeed to have these two still in my life. I just hope they realise how much they mean to all of us.

The Great Escape...

My husband and I are going abroad for Christmas.

Not to somewhere warm with sandy beaches, palm trees and coconuts. No, we are going to Norway where it will be colder than it is here, but hopefully with SNOW.

Remember singing ‘I’m dreaming of a white Christmas’? Well, we are always dreaming. One year we had 20 minutes of snow in Somerset during the whole winter. What good is that?

In 1962 we had a cracker of a winter. We lived in Kent then [with no central heating till the 1970s BTW]. By gum we knew how to survive in cold weather, with frost on the inside of the window, huddled over a small electric fire in the middle of the bedroom trying to do homework. There was a fire in the front room but the hall was so cold all you could hear during the evening when people went in and out was ‘Shut the door!’.

Anyway, I digress. In Norway it is colder [outside not inside] but we are not going for the dip in temperature. Apart from seeing our grandchildren I am looking forward to experiencing a scenario that looks like Christmas. White lawns, gently falling soft snowflakes, the scrunchy sound as you are the first one to walk down the drive in the morning leaving your footprint behind on the previously unmarked swathes of pristine white...

This means that we leave some of our kids behind in the UK to sort Christmas dinner, presents, decorations etc themselves. They can do that. They are all big enough. I will just say that again – our kids can sort Christmas dinner – does that not sound good?

I know I will help out where I will be, I can lay the table, I can load the dishwasher and peel potatoes – but it’s a lot different to being responsible for everything. Most importantly, I won’t be responsible for organising the clearing up after every meal, for checking the table has been wiped properly, making sure that stuff which needs to be defrosted has been taken out of the freezer and that all the leftover meat has been put in the fridge.


The housewives among us may understand why I am referring to this as The Great Escape.