Polly Vernon
I don’t mean to
BRAG [ 1], but I’ve KILLED hygge. Hygge – a Danish concept no one who isn’t Scandi can pronounce or define, though best guesses maintain it sounds like the noise you make when you’re trying unsuccessfully to be sick, and concerns the monetising of being dead cosy. It was last seen this time last year, when a load of people published a load of books about how to do it properly (edited highlights: mummify yourself in blankies, don’t answer the door till March), and a load more people posted shots of their snugglywuggly cashmere sock-encased feet on Instagram, then congratulated themselves for being Of The Moment. Me? I took against hygge. Violently. I considered it the enemy of glamour ( hygge does not coexist easily with: dangerous cleavage, waists cinched tight by Gucci branded double- G belts, sparkles or going out-out), and also, damned vague. Anyone with anything a bit warm-making to flog could market it as ‘hygge’. Vests? Hygge! Fire? Hygge! That cat? Hygge! And so I wrote a staunch condemnation of hygge and everything it sort of vaguely possibly stood for, in this very periodical, pointing out that cosiness is for ickle children at bo-bo bedtime, not adult women with fashion statements to maintain, oh – and also? If hygge has a smell, it is the smell of farts, trapped in a flat till springtime.
And here we are, one year after said staunch condemnation was published, teetering on the verge of meteorological winter – aka official hygge season – and, lo! I have not heard a peep out of hygge! Not. One. Peep. I haven’t received a single press release on it, or heard a single friend claim they’re ‘doing hygge’ when what they actually mean is: ‘I’m wearing a jumper’… And sure, there are rumours there’s a bit of it going down in Oliver Bonas RN, but I’m going to consider that the exception that proves the rule, and the rule is: I KILLED HYGGE!
How does it feel? Fantastically powerful. Right now, I’m wondering what else I could kill with this column. Giants? Reggae[ 2]? That newish internet headline convention, where people say WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT XXXXX, and you click on it, and it transpires you don’t need to talk about XXXXX at all, because it is Dull. As. Trump’s presidency? The possibilities seem endless. All I know is: my killing hygge is a very real indication I’m in charge now. What could possibly go wrong? [1] Blatant lie. [2] I don’t like it.