hygge with a twist!

It’s all about sharing, chilling, cosiness – and how you interpret it…

Hooga, Mum, that’s where happiness lies,” Charlie calls from the safety of the dining room. “Spelt h-y-g-g-e. It’s all about chilling and harmony.”

“Pardon?” I’m scraping the remainder of dinner from the bottom of our pans. I don’t feel harmonious. Or chilled.

“It’s Danish and you know how happy they are in Denmark.” Do I? Charlie is fourteen. His father, Rob, is forty-four. The reason neither of them are washing up (again) is due to homework commitments (Charlie) and marking commitments (Rob).

Funny how much homework appears on YouTube. And how a pranking video switches to the balcony scene in Romeo AndJuliet if I enter his room.

I call Rob to check if he’s done, and would he like a coffee? “Almost there, honest.” I hear that word a lot. I’ ve almost finished marking Year Nine Maths, Sal. Honest.

I’ ll eat dinner when I’ ve finished this essay/ computer game. Honest.

9 J A didn’ t understood probability, Sally. You’ re lucky your working day finishes at the end of your shift.

I’m a nurse. My working day is woven into home time.

Can you remove this splinter, Sal? Never touching bramble again. Got anything for burns, Mum? Now I’m putting things away, loudly. Making my point.

“Chill, Mum, hygge, remember?” Charlie calls out.

Hygge indeed. There’s little sign of the men in my life joining me any time soon, there’s nothing on TV and I’ve caught up with my catch-up. I pick up a tablet and search hygge. Charlie may appear to have a short attention span, but I learn loads from him too. They study such different things at school. I remember learning about The Peasants’ Revolt, quadratic equations and hemming a skirt (don’t ask).

Charlie’s piqued my curiosity about hygge. I scroll and click and read.

Seems it’s a communal thing, as cosy as woolly socks. I curl up my toes in a good way. It’s about living in the moment. No coming home and worrying about patients, going in the next day worrying about home.

It’s about getting pleasure from a nice, average life. More than anything it’s about harmony, being together – not the harmony achieved by a family not arguing because they live in separate rooms.

I like the sound of it. Especially the communal bit.

“Rob, Charlie, any chance you could find the kitchen?”

I hear all the “in a minute, honest”s and I wait. I’m chill. I’m living in the now.

They appear when they probably think the tasks will be done. But, surprise, I’ve saved us something.

Rob looks horrified when I hand him a floral bag. “It’s hygge,” I say. “Ask Charlie.” Rob looks at Charlie who shrugs his shoulders, possibly regretting mentioning the word in the first place. I know what they’re thinking, and I’m not. I’ve come to my senses, not lost them. I point Charlie towards a wicker basket.

Now don’t get me wrong. I live in a household where we all help. Mostly. There are just some jobs I’m sure they think are mine because I’ve got into the habit of doing them. The reality is, if I don’t do them no one will. “Let’s do stuff together. Chill, boys.” Surprisingly they follow me outside. We peg things on the washing line. It’s sunny with a breeze. Rob glances around, checking neighbours can’t see him.

I anticipate the scent of freshly dried washing. But, stop – I’m supposed to be living in the moment, aren’t I?

Rob and Charlie have snuck back to the house. Rob has pegged the socks out as precisely as a maths teacher might. Blues together (blue pegs), then greens (green pegs). In size order – mine first, his, then Charlie’s.

There can be too much harmony, can’t there? I’m not Danish, after all.

So I jumble them up a bit, green socks – blue pegs. There, that’s better. Hanging out the washing has been hygge with a twist. Perhaps I’ll export it.

“Put the kettle on boys,” I call. “I’m sure there’s something we could watch together on TV.”