Shop etiquette

Anna got herself a wee job in Lidl out of school hours about six weeks ago. After a few training sessions and some shelf stacking she was finally the main checkout person last weekend and she decided it was a bit of a culture shock!

Firstly, she knows it's Scandinavia, but still can't understand the multiple bags of salt liquorice bought by individual customers and she was in shock when one 80+ year old granny bought 38 bags of it and nothing else! They even ran out of liquorice-flavoured alcoholic shots last Saturday afternoon. How can that even be a thing?🤮

The Danish pastries are a cultural divider too. Anna's not a very sweet girl, preferring savoury offerings so hasn't fully learned the names of all the different Danish baked goods. She says people look at her as if she's landed from the moon when she doesn't know her hindbærsnitter from her spandauer. They cannot conceive that someone lives in Denmark, looks and sounds Danish but doesn't know such items. I guess it would be the equivalent of a teenager on the checkout in Govan with a very Glasgow accent asking the customer whether a tatty scone was in fact a tatty scone or haggis! 

Contrary to my experience in Danish supermarkets when checkout staff and customers alike ignore each other as best they can, the checkout operator of course needs to tell them the sum owed, but that counts as a conversation here in this land of few words, Anna finds the customers positively chatty by Danish standards! The mere donning of a badge stating she's a trainee, or ny kollega, has the older ones addressing her as pigebarn, literary girl child but equivalent of sweetie or similar, and offering all sorts of encouragement, advice and anecdotes about how hard new jobs can be. It plays into my theory that Danes aren't actually as anti-social as they come across, they are simply much more in need for an in into a conversation than I am used to from back home. I'm tempted to stick a ny dansker badge on and walk up and down Odense main street to see if I can finally make a friend over here!

But as a Scottish person, the thing that has surprised Anna most about Danes is their honesty. Scots are an honest nation too for the most part but I think it is more in our psyche to be honest to individuals than corporations. If someone drops a tenner, of course we pick it up and alert them to the fact that they have done so, we'd usually hand in a lost phone or wallet, but if we notice we've been minimally undercharged on a receipt, we'd just take it to be the sign of a good day, justifying ourselves that we've certainly been overcharged on an equal number of occasions. That's my Glasgow experience anyway. But not here. If Anna accidentally puts through a baguette as white rather than brown, thus undercharging the customer by about 30p, they actually come back and ask to be debited for the full amount! She says this or the equivalent happened half a dozen times last weekend. Mind blown! 

I'm sure her wee job will lead to further cultural observations in the future so watch this space!😀

The Danish word Fuck

I was a lexicographer for over twenty years, so I know everything there is to know about compiling the entry fuck in English for a bilingual or monolingual dictionary. From the smallest pocket dictionary to the largest several-volume tome, I have had to analyse fuck. And to be perfectly honest, it really isn't all that interesting! It usually means almost nothing! Had she not been cremated, my old granny would be spinning in her grave at the thought of her granddaughter being paid to discuss the nuances of fuck in meetings, given she told me once she would never let that disgraceful word cross her lips!

Analysing the use of the word fuck in Denmark is quite interesting. There seems to me to be an inverse correlation between how good a Dane is at English and how bad they are at getting the nuances and the register of fuck when speaking English. Poor English speakers tend to avoid it, whereas decent English speakers take the now Danish word fuck and transpose it back into English as if the two fucks are direct equivalents, which they certainly are not!

Often I notice when I am on Facebook that foreigners who are excellent at English - in particular Scandinavians, Dutch and the likes use it when writing their facebook statuses in English for things like:  

• '3 minutes late for nursery today - fuck!'
•  'Foggy weather today - fuck!' 

I, as an English native, know fuck is way too strong for these comments, but the foreigners seem to think fuck is on a par with shit or even damn, which it most definitely isn't. Too many American movies have somehow led the non-native, fluent English speaker to believe fuck is something every grandmother utters when the rain comes on while she's hanging out the washing! 

In the past I came across two examples of fuck in a very non-native context. Firstly, a few years back I was wandering around a large toy shop in Arezzo in Italy when I was stunned to hear the music piped in the background was Lily Allen's 'Fuck You'! A catchy, cheery wee tune but believe me - you are never going to hear it piped into Toys R Us in the UK or US! And later the same day I was passed in the street by a couple, who looked around 45 years old, walking up the main street in Arezzo holding the hand of a child - a little boy of about 6, 7 at most, wearing a simple black T-shirt, plain except for the slogan 'FUCK OFF!' in large upper case white letters. You simply wouldn't see that in a native English country. 

Since moving the Denmark I am knee-deep in weird examples. Danes have taken fuck into Danish as a standard swearword, but it has strangely become much milder in Danish. Here are just some examples...

• Teachers happily use the English word fuck in front of their class to express mild annoyance, even when the kids are as young as 7 or 8. Things like 'Fuck I forgot the marker pens for the whiteboard, I'll be back in two minutes'. That certainly didn't happen back in Newton Mearns!
• School kids therefore use it back to the teacher and no one bats an eyelid. Imagine the teacher announces something along the lines of 'Sorry kids, I'm gonna have to cancel the art lesson today', he would fully expect the kids to reply 'Awwwwh, fuck, that's annoying!' In Danish fuck really is like damn, or milder still like awwwh. One of the things my youngest struggled most with when we came here was remembering that it was absolutely fine, and even expected, that you would say fuuuuuck when speaking in Danish if you were disappointed in class but you sure as hell needed to remember not to say it to granny on visits back home if she was two seconds late passing you the ketchup!
• Often on news reports and documentaries on prime time TV again people being interviewed use fuck at the drop of a hat. Here are a couple of examples from recent TV: Today we have had severe flooding in the north of the country. We're here in Aalborg with a local businessman Lars Jensen can you describe how it affected you? Oh yes, I got up and came downstairs to find the cellar flooded, I thought Fuuuuuck! This is a completely normal broadcast. You even get it for surprise. Here's another example: We are getting reports that the Queen just indicated she intends to abdicate, we're here with Mette Nielsen who works in the local Coop. What did you think when you heard the news Mette Nielsen? Well, I just turned to my boyfriend and went fuck, I wasn't expecting that!
• Watching the Danish version of the Great British Bake-off, someone screws something up every week; they burn their cake, their icing is too runny, whatever, again old ladies weep fuck in unison on prime time telly, before being comforted by the judges or the presenter.

But where it goes wrong is when Danes think the Danish word fuck is translated into English by the English word fuck. A reasonable assumption but usually a very wrong one.

I'm not a prude, as someone who gets paid to analyse language, I have always been more than comfortable with using it and even prefer my kids to use the words they mean rather than some pointless euphemism. I remember back when Marcel was 11, which wasn't yesterday,  his primary school asked parents with interesting or different jobs to come in and give a talk to the p7 (age 11) classes about what they did. I think back then I was the only lexicographer in the school, though was joined a few years later by an ex-colleague. So, I volunteered. As we neared the date of my talk Marcel, a bit of a teacher's pet goody-two-shoes type was looking more and more ill-at-ease and I couldn't tell why. We often had discussions about language and pragmatics at home and I didn't shy away from discussing any words that came up with my kids. Eventually he blurted out in a panic 'Mum, you know you're not allowed to analyse the word fuck at my school in your talk, don't you? You'd get me into trouble!' I laughed. While I had, of course, tailored my talk to suit the sensibilities of Newton Mearns 11-year-olds, it was reassuring for Marcel to know he could trust his mum not to cause a linguistic uproar. Léon, on the other hand, would probably have encouraged me as a means of acquiring some sort of legendary status...

But the bottom line remains: just because you have taken a word into your own language and changed the pragmatics and register of it doesn't mean you can just transpose it back into its original language the same way! I really am considering writing a course for foreigners to get them to understand this concept in all its glory.

Farewell Daisy, Hello Fred

I'm not sure whether this post belongs on my normal blog, or here as it is as much about my weekend as it is about the quirks of Denmark. Thought I'd jazz it up a bit for here so as not to bore anyone who happens upon both! 

Well, would you believe it? There's a new monarch in town.

So, picture this: it's New Year's Eve, and I find myself sprawled on the couch. Why, you ask? Well, some nasty flu bug decided to crash my Christmas party, and I'd barely set foot outside. Now, normally, I'd give the Queen's speech a hard pass, but there I was, a captive audience. Quite the compliment, considering I've never once watched the UK monarch's Christmas speech. Being a good Scottish republican, you know, the kind that doesn't sit down to watch Lizzie – or probably Charlie these days – address the nation.

Now, the first year I landed in Denmark, I did my homework for Danish class by tuning in to the Danish Queen's speech. Old Queen Magrethe, unlike most Danes, speaks at a pace even a sloth would find leisurely. A foreigner's dream, really – comprehension-wise, at least. Fast forward to the end of a rather lengthy and not exactly riveting speech, and she casually drops the bombshell that she's stepping down in a fortnight. Mind you, no one's abdicated in Denmark for 878 years. Cue Denmark going into meltdown.

First, there's a good half-hour of stunned silence, as if she'd actually dropped dead mid-speech. But hey, they love their Queen Daisy like bees love their queen, so within 30 minutes, the hive mind decides it's the best thing ever. Monarchy support skyrockets to 80%, with only one in five Danes thinking twice about splurging tax money on royal luxuries – oops, I mean service to the nation. Equality, anyone? Apparently, some are just more equal than others...

Fast forward to last Sunday, coronation day. Feeling all Danish, I decided to grab a cake to celebrate. Unfortunately, this entire island had the same idea, and my go-to award-winning bakery had sold out before I'd even got dressed.

But I'm not one to be defeated by a cake shortage, so off I went to the big Coop bakery. Ghost town. Almost sold out. While the rest of Denmark glued themselves to the telly or, better yet, camped out in front of Parliament for the royal show, I was on a cake mission.

Flags in gardens, kids rocking crowns like they'd raided Burger King, folks waving flags like there's no tomorrow, weeping pensioners – you name it. 90,000 people on Parliament Square in freezing cold unison chanting 'hurrah' with the Prime Minister in some cult-like manner. They even invaded TikTok with this type of gem:

Watching their traditions, like the monarch riding in a golden horse-drawn carriage – no heated seats, mind you – seemed like drawing the short straw. No wonder she resigned if it meant swapping the carriage for a comfy limo. I mean, heated seats are non-negotiable in Northern Europe!

The bowing and curtsying? King Frederik bowing to his own mother? My kids don't pull that stunt with me! As she exits, she declares 'Gud bevare Kongen!' (God save the King). Not exactly how my mother used to take her leave of us after Sunday dinner back when we lived in Scotland! It's all a bit unrelatable. Maybe it's monarchy in general, not just this one, that's the issue.

This little country feels more like a clan than a nation. As a foreigner, I could see the vibes, but I couldn't feel them. I didn't know how to. Why is this family different? The new King's my age, has four kids instead of five – are we really that different? Apparently so, but I'm not sure how or why! I felt like an outsider watching a national family party I hadn't been invited to mentally. I secretly wonder if the new Queen, also a foreigner, felt a bit on the outside, or maybe it's easier when the crowd's going wild for you, the state's filling your bank account, and you get citizenship as a wedding gift, instead of perpetually climbing Everest to a citizenship that at my age is all but unattainable.

Come Monday, kids at school were gushing like a family member threw the party of the century. Except for my youngest – 'No one mentioned it, Mum. They weren't interested.' Rebellion at 14, back in the fold by 20, maybe?

I bet this all sounds familiar to those who watched Charles's do last year in England. But hey, I was too busy washing my hair that day to catch any of the footage. 😉

Anna summed it up on the day for this house... 

Anna: You see that crowd of people waiting outside in the cold to greet the new king of Denmark, mum?

Me: Yes.

Anna: I can guarantee you one thing... My future husband is not in that crowd!🤣

School trips - Danish style

I remember a teacher friend from the UK once telling me she felt quite stressed whenever she took the kids abroad on a school trip because she was expected to be with them 24/7, or follow their whereabouts using an iPad tracker program whenever they were out of her sight.

Léon's off today on a two-week school trip to the south of Spain, where he will be living with a Spanish host family and attending Spanish school. But the Danish approach is quite different to what I know from Scotland.

He and the other seven or eight kids in his class were given:

• a train ticket from Odense to Copenhagen Central
• a train ticket from Copenhagen Central to Kastrup airport
• a plane ticket to Brussels
• a plane ticket from Brussels to Malaga leaving three hours later 
• a note of where in Malaga to go to meet the Spanish teacher from Colmenar high school
• and the same in reverse for 2 weeks later

And that was that! There was no boarding pass, there are no accompanying teachers. If they get lost in Brussels, I guess the eat some moules frites and waffles, then have to come up with a survival plan themselves! Denmark empowers its young people in a way they really don't back home, and I am not sure why we don't question that.

I'm sure he'll manage, but I may just turn off my phone until he gets there, just in case!

What's in a name?

I remember singing Incy Wincy Spider to the kids when they were little, at bedtime. Oh, I know that one too, said Thomas and he happily sang:

Lille Peter Edderkop kravled op ad muren.

Så kom regnen og skylled Peter væk.

Så kom solen og tørred Peters krop.

Lille Peter Edderkop kravled atter op.

So, apparently Incy Wincy was just a stage name and the wee spider was actually called Little Peter Spider! Who knew?

Roll forward a year or two and the girls are playing with the two big Winnie the Poohs that mum and dad had given them when they were born. What are you two up to? I ask innocently, only to receive the reply: Playing with Peter. Peter who, I wonder, given the only Peter they know is their German Grandpa and they call him Großvater, not Peter. The girls show me Winnie the Pooh and call him Peter. I am seriously puzzled till they pick up the book daddy has been reading them as a bedtime story and it is entitled Peter Plys, Peter Plush.

Ok, so whoever was in charge of naming kiddie things didn't have much imagination, but whatever... 

The following Christmas they are watching a DVD their Danish aunt and uncle have sent them on the TV. I can see a little monkey, with a bloke all dressed in yellow. I make a coffee and snuggle down on the couch to watch with them muttering something about Curious George when the three wee ones look at me completely blank. I tune in mentally and hear the audio is in Danish. It's Curious George, I repeat louder and they chorus back, No it's not, it's Peter Pedal! I give up!

So, here's my rule of thumb, if you find yourself watching TV with any Danish kids at any point and you don't know the name of the character in the show, just call them Peter and you're likely to pass for a native!

Addendum!

Not a week after writing this, Thomas is chatting to the kids (as always in Danish) and mentions the word væltepeter. What on earth could that be, I ask myself, understanding the components of the word but not its meaning. At vælte means to topple or knock over and Peter, once again is of course, Peter! So what on earth is a 'topple Peter!' I put it into Google images and come face to face with a faded vintage photo of a penny farthing bicycle! Poor Peter taking the brunt of it all again! Danes are weird...

Superabundant taxidermy

Is it a Denmark thing? Is it maybe a Funen thing? What is it with primary schools and their endless displays of stuffed dead animals? Everything from hares, to birds, to every type of rodent you can expect to find under the sun, the Danish sun at least? All with those creepy beady eyes staring maniacally at nothing in a vaguely menacing manner. Perhaps Denmark accidentally trained too many taxidermists back in the 50s and 60s and needed to find something for them to do? I'm puzzled!

I first noticed it when we were visiting folkeskoler (Danish state schools for kids aged 6-15) back in 2019. Even the tiniest of village schools had a proud display of dead stuff. I wondered if they were used in biology lessons, or maybe in art lessons? Are they simply remnants of a time when introducing young kids to what the native animals looked like wasn't as simple as googling 'Danish water shrew' or the likes?

As a child I remember vividly finding the stuffed dead things exhibits in Glasgow's magnificent Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum a bit alarming too. Did their eyes follow me as I walked by? My other half subscribes to an amusing Facebook group of exceedingly poorly stuffed pathetic little beasts. But in a way, I think all stuffed animals look kind of like that to me. I've never looked at a dead owl with its glassy eyes staring through me and thought, how magnificent, I've simply thought yeuch!

Over the last week we've been to see most of the gymnasier (an upper high school/college for kids aged 16-20 ish) within driving distance of our house as Anna is in her last year at state school and needs to apply to one in the next six weeks. We've been to open nights and we've been on school tours and once again we've been met by corridor upon corridor of rigid corpses staring at us willing us to choose their school. I would love to know how and why this tradition came about and whether I'm weird in my slightly squeamish attitude to it all!

Håndbold

Today the whole of Denmark is going wild because they have become the first country ever to win the men's handball World Cup three times in a row.

It's funny when you immigrate to somewhere not too far from where you started out in life. I guess subconsciously you assume the culture in the new place will be more or less the same as at home, but here we are with nearly 6 million people interested in a sport I had never seen and only knew the name of until a few years ago.

Given the hype, I decided to watch a couple of matches. Now that was an eye-opener. Having grown up in a football and to a lesser extent rugby country, I am used to seeing the football World Cup. When you watch football, you watch in anticipation, hoping someone will score a goal. In the 90 minutes, you rarely get more than two or three, so you could miss the goals if you blink, or nip into the kitchen to make a coffee. 

Now that I'm a seasoned handball watcher (I've seen three matches including the final), it seems to me (Danes may correct me if I am wrong), you watch handball for the non-goals, the misses. The match takes a hour in total. One team scores at one end, then the other team gets the ball and rushes to the other end to score in turn, this pattern repeats approximately once a minute for the entire match, so the goals become boring, the exciting bit is when a team misses their turn on goal and the other side get ahead for a few minutes.

It is strange to watch a sport where you are essentially only interested in the misses and not the goals.

Finally, with Denmark four goals ahead last night with only two minutes to go, the French team simply stopped playing, knowing they could not catch up, and simply started milling about the court looking dejected and hugging each other. I can't imagine that in a football match.