Free The Year of Living Danishly by Helen Russell

here…’ I can’t help thinking that there’s very little I could add to the world of Danish baked goods by getting up two hours earlier.
    â€˜Yeah. So mooaarrnnssmull went on for an hour, then we had a meeting where we agreed that we needed another meeting before we could make a decision, then I had another meeting where there were more buns and coffee, then we all went for lunch at 11.30, then, well, when we’d finished eating, it was someone’s birthday so we had cake. After that, most people started clearing their desks for the weekend.’
    â€˜Busy day…’ I mutter sarcastically.
    â€˜Yep, I’m stuffed,’ he says, straight-faced, flopping on to the sofa and flicking through an interiors magazine.
    As far as I can make out, a good chunk of the Danish working day seems to be taken up with refreshments. Lego apparently banned vending machines and all sugar on the premises some years ago, but now provide workers with free baskets of rye bread, fruit and carrots instead.
    â€˜So the world’s largest toymaker is fuelled by nothing but betacarotene, whole grains and a childlike zest for life?’
    â€˜Nail your five-a-day and you can achieve anything,’ shrugs Lego Man.
    Lunch is a communal affair, taken at around 11–11.30am each day when everyone deserts their desks to eat together in the staff canteen. This is a bright, white space with Lego-brick-primary-colour furnishings and plenty of pork, herring and all the components for smørrebrød (the traditional open rye-bread sandwiches), but not a pudding in sight.
    â€˜Well, you can’t have everything,’ I tell him.
    He explains that because sugar’s so scarce, morgenmad and any other occasion involving the arrival of sweet goods is A Big Deal. He witnessed his first Danish birthday celebration this week when a colleague’s desk was covered in flags and the extended team gathered around to sing something rousing.
    â€˜I wasn’t quite sure what the song was about, but there were a lot of actions. It’s hard to join in when you don’t know what’s going on, but by the last verse, I’d guessed it had something to do with trombones…’ He does a quick mime to illustrate his point and I tell him that I’ve just read that the Danes are ranked as the most shameless nation in the world.
    â€˜They’re meant to be practically immune from embarrassment.’
    â€˜That makes sense,’ he nods. ‘There’s been a lot of singing, actually.’
    â€˜Really?’ This is like catnip to me. ‘You never said! Tell all! You know I love an awkward team-building sing-song…’
    â€˜All right, all right, I’ll tell you about it,’ Lego Man says, somewhat reluctantly. ‘But promise you won’t write about it somewhere or use it as a funny anecdote?’
    â€˜Of course I won’t!’ I lie.
    â€˜Well, there’s actually an office band…’ (at this, I clap my hands with glee) ‘… they play at every available opportunity and—’ (he looks at me disapprovingly) ‘— no one sniggers .’ I can already tell that I will never, ever, get an invitation to see the office band in action. ‘And they also like making up songs about the team to the tune of popular hits…’
    â€˜No!’ He’s spoiling me now. ‘Like what?’
    â€˜Well, this week, someone made up a song about our department to the tune of ABBA’s “Mama Mia”. My favourite part went something along the lines of, “We’ve been working so hard, to meet our KPIs” – oh, that stands for “Key Performance Indicators”,’ he adds, ‘just in case you didn’t know…’
    â€˜Of course I know,’ I fib. ‘Don’t stop!’
    â€˜Sorry, well, after this comes the “de de de” bit…’
    I join in, helpfully, to hurry things