THAT SOUR GIN AND TONIC ONLY MAKES YOU CRY [57]

In my ongoing quest to look and sound more witty and urbane, I felt that I should, at least, try a gin and tonic - again. I had once bought a can of pre-mixed gin and tonic, took one sip of it, and spat it straight out again, pouring the rest down the kitchen sink. Willing to admit that may have been my fault, never having been one for anything that tastes remotely bitter, I have tried again but, as I write this, I am taking the smallest sips possible – why did anyone, apart from me, think this was a good idea?

Almost the most British of cocktails, gin and tonic was borne out of necessity. When India was under British rule, it was necessary to down large quantities of quinine, at least eight times more than you now find in regular tonic water, in order to fend off malaria, although you are now more likely to use it to restless leg syndrome. Therefore, to take away the taste of something that, to me, tries to remove all the moisture from the inside of your mouth, gin was added, from the ration already given to British officers in India, to make the concoction more palatable, or bearable.

However, that does not explain why we drink it now – like so many things, like tea, silks, minerals, curry and chintz, the British took it home with them. Accidentally keeping in with this, had a chicken tikka masala for dinner before trying my G&T, although this is a British variant on an Indian tradition, and its being a microwave meal means it counts for nothing at all.

Pressing on through more sips of the G&T, I realised I should try to drink it in the same manner I was advised to drink Guinness, having been on a tour of their factory in Dublin last year: apparently, you should draw a decent amount into your mouth, and then gulp it, before the more bitter notes of the hops (or, in this case, the quinine) act on your throat.

This all sounds like I am trying to learn how to be an adult, expected to “hold” their drink, to be able to drink with friends, to do this and that. However, when you don’t like the idea of being drunk, passing from the “witty” phase to the “boring, or out of control” phase, or when you don’t like the idea of being in a pub, much preferring a good restaurant, there is much less of a need to have a drink. Sure, I will have a drink now and then, but “now” and “then” are usually separated by quite a few days. In short, I don’t not drink to be anti-social, which is about as awkward as telling some people you don’t like going to the pub.

Will I try gin and tonic again? The flavour of the juniper berries in the gin are somewhat overtaken by the bitterness of the quinine so, for me, the next time might be a gin and… anything else.

THERE IS A LOVELY COUNTRY [21]

A “Danish moment” is upon us. Last weekend, I bought a book titled “How To Be Danish,” from a bookshop that had a table laden with books about Danish and Scandinavian culture, all vying to be Christmas presents. Why Denmark, and why now?

Where we once had “Feng Shui,” we now have “hygge,” a term meant to describe a particularly Danish brand of homeliness and conviviality. It is a feeling already known as “Germütlichkeit” in German, but Danes usually swap their translation “gemytlig,” for their word for “snug,” as in being hygge as a bygge in a rygge. (However, “hygge” is pronounced “hoo-guh,” so that joke doesn’t work.)

In essence, hygge is a year-round version of that relaxed feeling everyone has between Christmas and New Year, meeting up with family, enjoying good food and conversation in the glow of a candlelight, wearing a woolly jumper, drinking mulled wine, relaxing by a fireplace, away from the cold – lots of blankets, candles and food are involved. Step into a branch of Tiger, which is being renamed to the original “Flying Tiger Copenhagen,” and all your hygge needs will be met.

What I realise is, in the UK, we have no time for this during the rest of the year. That the Danes have this as part of their everyday lives goes some way to explaining why the sinister-sounding Happiness Research Institute recently reported that Danes are the happiest people in the world.

Hygge may work for Denmark, but Denmark is a different society to the UK, with its own solutions. Social mobility is not an aspiration, but an (unofficial) high minimum wage means it is not really a thing. It has among the highest tax rates in the world, but numerous, and generous state benefits, such as student grants, mean people are more likely to see what they pay for. Ostentatiousness is not part of the Danish character, and there is a smaller wealth gap than in most countries. In Denmark, your lifestyle is more likely to be shared, and more likely to be given a single name.

Having seen, when I picked up my copy of “How to Be Danish,” books with titles like “Hygge: The Danish Art of Happiness,” and “The Little Book of Hygge: How to Bring Danish Cosiness Into Your Life,” these Christmas stocking fillers feel less like guides to how others live their lives differently, and more like self-help books describing how others live better lives than you.

It reminded me of the 1996 TV ad for Ikea, imploring the British public to “Chuck Out the Chintz,” changing tastes more quickly than Sir Terence Conran managed with Habitat. That chintz itself was imported from India in the 17^th century is more an indicator of how British culture absorbs influences from other cultures so easily, and so often. Ikea likes to sell us a lifestyle but, for some, it is also somewhere else to go when you are bored with Argos.

Perhaps that is what we should do – take the bits that work, then move on. We watched “The Killing,” “The Bridge” and “Borgen,” and proceeded to make “Broadchurch” and “Top of the Lake.” We like what we like, then make our own version, like we’ll do with hygge.