Snudge and the art of optional happiness

The good citizens of Denmark are now considered to be the most content people in the world and apparently it is all down to something called Hygge. It is spelt like the expectoration of a cat but pronounced Hoo-ga and not being Danish I know very little about it but being me I intend to pretend I do. Hoo-ga is cable knit jumpers, fur rugs and scented candles, it is hugs and too thick socks and warm wine with good friends. Hoo-ga is about taking delight in the small things, about the pursuit of happiness and jollity, about kinship or simply about the pleasure of one’s own company. It is about ritual, taking care and knowing the difference between combing the bobbles off a blanket for pure satisfaction and an obsessive compulsive disorder. Hoo-ga rhymes with nougat for good reason, it is sweet, not a little nutty and goes all gooey and soft in front of an open fire. But be warned, cynical forces are trying to import Hoo-ga into Britain, these dark agents want to make you pay for your happiness, they want you all living Danishly, perfectly groomed, resolutely cheerful, surrounded by hundreds of sandalwood flames, fingers laced around an earthenware mug of aquavit toddy whilst watching endless repeats of The Killing. Hoo-ga! Resist I say, put down that pebble nest. We at Rume intend to fight the overwhelming temptation to sell lots of Danish themed homewares that are designed purely with your wellbeing in mind. We reserve the right to be miserable and if not miserable then we insist that Britain comes up with a Hoo-ga of its own.

What’s wrong with a three bar heater, a can of Bulmers and a bag of cheese and onion crisps? What’s so special about cable knit jumpers or wooly socks anyway? Most winter nights I have two pairs of socks, a pair of gloves and a balaclava on, fingerless gloves of course so I can still eat my Walkers. Libby can be found under a blanket, or as she likes to call it a throw, sniffing hot gluhwein. The lights turned down, the telly turned up, darkness and rain pressing against the windows, ineffective radiators clicking, not an embroidery ring, whittling twig or five thousand piece fir tree jigsaw puzzle in sight. This is not Hoo-ga, this is Snudge, coined by us at Rume to fulfill our own inner cosy yearnings. Snudge is routine, knowing and ever so slightly tat. Snudge is classless, tasteless and boundless. You can’t fail at Snudge, want to eat your dinner at the coffee table? Want to sit about in tracksuit bottoms and a vest? Want to eat a hula hoop from every finger? Go ahead, Snudge doesn’t judge. Snudge is a bowl of maltesers straight from the fridge, a glass of beer from a champagne flute, custard creams with your Earl Grey. It doesn’t matter if you live in a minimal bunker, an Edwardian terrace or a basement flat, if you come from this scepter’d Isle, this land of the low grey cloud, you will understand instinctively what Snudge means, this is not mandatory happiness, this is Britain dammit, happiness is optional.

P.S. I am very fond of Denmark, the Danes and very partial to a Danish, especially a pain au raisin, which is French but spends its short life wishing it was Danish.