He shrugs: ‘Not that I’ve seen.’
This was mind-blowing. In London, if we were both home by 7pm in time for The Archers, it was a cause for celebration. More often than not, we only saw each other at weekends or encountered the other as a warm body in bed in the small hours, having worked late or been out with friends.
But here, 4pm is the new 7pm. 4pm is rush hour, in Denmark. I haven’t usually begun the meat of my afternoon’s work by 4pm, having at least another few hours left in me. And yet he was back at home, wanting to put on loud music, chat and clatter things.
I’ve just about got my head around this new state of affairs and Lego Man’s early arrivals when I hear a car crunch onto the drive at 2.30pm. The sound of the door handle turning gives me such a shock that I knock over a glass of water while speaking to a time management expert in New York. I have to pretend to her that the resultant cursing is coughing and that the madly barking dog is interference on the transatlantic Skype line.
‘Well, thank you so much for your time,’ I say as I scribble some final notes in poor shorthand. ‘I won’t keep you any longer!’ I add slightly manically in order to be heard over the din of the dog, whimpering with excitement at the return of his master, and Lego Man, bringing his characteristic drafts and noise into the house. He is affectionately mauled by the dog, buying me a few moments to consider my decidedly dressed-down look. Perhaps I could pull off the early-afternoon-PJ-lounging-outfit as an homage to Hugh Hefner…?
‘You’re home early!’ I couldn’t sound guiltier if he’d caught me in flagrante with Sarah Lund’s series three love interest. (Google him. A treat.)
‘Yes. Turns out everyone leaves even earlier on a Friday.’ He sticks his head around the door and takes in my dishevelled state. ‘You’re not dressed! Are you OK? Do you feel ill?’
I think about faking something non-life-threatening and fleeting, then buckle under the pressure. ‘No,’ I reply, sheepishly. ‘It’s, er, for a feature.’ This is a lie.
Lego Man looks around at the chaos of plates, mugs and evidence of bakery-based snacking all around me. ‘What’s the feature? “How slob is the new black”?’
‘I’ll have you know these pyjamas are Stella McCartney,’ I say, weakly, before trying to change the subject. ‘So how was your … morning?’
‘Good, thank you. I’ve been learning about Danish “work–life balance”.’
‘Haven’t you just – you’re home at lunch time!’
Lego Man ignores this. ‘Apparently on a Friday, you don’t need to be in until half eight and then there’s—’ here he makes a strange guttural sound, ‘Mooooaaaarrrnnnsssmullllll.’
‘I’m sorry, what?’
‘It’s written “morgenmad” and means “morning food”,’ he explains. He’s already mastered some key food-based vocabulary and we haven’t even started Danish lessons yet. I’m a little envious. ‘Everyone in the office takes it in turns to bake and bring in rolls and pastries. One of the guys was up at 4am to bake today’s buns.’
‘Good grief! And there are such good bakeries 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.
‘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.’
‘Busy day…’ I mutter sarcastically.
‘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.
‘So the world’s largest toymaker is fuelled by nothing but betacarotene, whole grains and a childlike zest for life?’
‘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.
‘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.
‘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.
‘They’re meant to be practically immune from embarrassment.’
‘That makes sense,’ he nods. ‘There’s been a lot of singing, actually.’
‘Really?’ This is like catnip to me. ‘You never said! Tell all! You know I love an awkward team-building sing-song…’
‘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?’
‘Of course I won’t!’ I lie.
‘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…’
‘No!’ He’s spoiling me now. ‘Like what?’
‘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…’
‘Of course I know,’ I fib. ‘Don’t stop!’
‘Sorry, well, after this comes the “de de de” bit…’
I join in, helpfully, to hurry things along: ‘De de de de de de de, de de de de de de…’ before Lego Man comes back in with the next line:
‘And we all can agree, we’re still a fun bunch of guys…’
‘De de de de de de de, de de de de de de…’
‘And then … and then … I can’t remember the rest.’
‘Try!’
Lego Man scrunches up his face and tries to remember before shaking his head and unclenching. ‘I can’t, sorry.’
‘Oh well, the first two lines were amazing…’
‘Thanks,’ he says, as though taking credit for the composition himself. ‘There’s also a lot of drumming,’ he adds, walking out of the room.
‘What?’ He can’t just drop this percussive bombshell and saunter off.
‘In meetings and workshops,’ he calls out from the kitchen, ‘there’s often drumming. On buckets. Or boxes. Or bongos. Whatever you can hit a beat on really.’ He says this as though it is the most normal thing in the world. Like fetching new staples from the stationery cupboard.
‘And … everyone joins in?’ I’m on my feet now, following him around for further details.
‘Oh yeah. Everyone joins in with everything. We’re all equal, remember? Although you can tell who the most important people are – they tend to go for the biggest bongos.’
‘Wow!’ I’m unbelievably disappointed not to be witnessing the delights of office drumming first hand. ‘And are some people just really musical? Do they end up competing to be the best drummers?’
He knows what I’m thinking. He knows that I would instantly become competitive about how my drumming measured up to other people’s and start showing off.
‘No,’ he says very firmly. ‘It doesn’t matter how good a drummer, singer, or trombone-mimer you are, bragging about anything is bad form. They have a mantra in the business – “Lego over ego” – and people follow it.’ He tells me that he and his fellow non-Danes have been guided towards the writings of a 1930s Danish-Norwegian author, Aksel Sandemose, for a better understanding of how best to ‘integrate’ into the workplace in Denmark. Sandemose outlines ten rules for living Danishly (otherwise known as ‘Jante’s Law’) in his novel, A Fugitive Crosses His Tracks. These, as far as Google Translate and I can make out, are:
You’re not to think you are anything special
You’re not to think you are as good as we are
You’re not to think you are smarter than us
You’re not to convince yourself that you are better than us
You’re not to think you know more than us
You’re not to think you are more important than us
You’re not to think you are good at anything
You’re not to laugh at us
You’re not to think anyone cares about you
You’re not to think you can teach us anything
‘Crikey, you’re not to do much round here, are you?’
‘Oh, and there’s another, unspoken one.’
‘Yes?’
‘“Don’t put up with presenteeism”. If anyone plays the martyr card, staying late or working too much, they’re more likely to get a leaflet about efficiency or time management dropped on their desk than any sympathy.’
‘Blimey!’ This makes a change from London life. Back home, answering an email at midnight or staying at your desk until 8pm was considered a badge of honour. But in Danish work culture, this implies that you’re incapable of doing your work in the time available. Desks are all fitted with hydraulics so that staff can work standing up if they prefer, something that’s been proven to be better for your health (according to research published in the Journal of Social Psychological and Personality Science) as well as facilitating swifter, more dynamic informal meetings or ‘stand ups’ as they’re called. Instead of asking a colleague if you can ‘have a sit down’ to chat, you have a ‘stand up’ instead. ‘And we’re done in half the time,’ says Lego Man.
He also tells me that no one uses titles and no one wears a tie – in fact you’re more likely to see executives mooching about in hoodies, Facebook-style, than in suits. Somehow, I manage to persuade Lego Man to let me visit him at work for lunch (after promising to adhere to several conditions, namely not to mention the ABBA sing-song or ask for any drumming demonstrations). There’s a laid-back Silicon-Valley-meets-Google-HQ vibe from the moment I step inside the glass-fronted head office in Billund’s sleepy residential centre. I get comfy on the circular sofas, moulded to look like the relief of the iconic Lego brick, and contemplate whether or not it would be bad form to have a play with the giant pool of white bricks in the reception area. Lego Man meets me and escorts me through the office and we pass meeting rooms, all named after toys. This is something I find reassuring after a few weeks of hearing my husband on the phone talking about a 9.30am in Tinsoldaten – ‘Tin Soldier’ – followed by a session in Bamse – ‘Teddy Bear’. Each room has a vast glass bowl of Lego in the middle of the table to encourage employees and guests to build as they talk. ‘I can barely hear a word in some meetings for the noise of people raking through bowls for the right brick,’ Lego Man tells me.
Lego isn’t just another business in Denmark – it’s a way of life. A cultural beacon inspiring a cult-like dedication. Danes are proud of their country’s most famous export, which now has parents in socked feet cursing as they stand on upturned blocks in 130 countries worldwide. There is a massive online community of adult fans of Lego, or AFOLs as they like to call themselves (‘Not “geeks who can’t get girlfriends”?’ I ask Lego Man, doubtfully. ‘No,’ he tells me, sternly. ‘I’ll have you know that David Beckham and Brad Pitt have both come out as AFOLs so I’m in prestigious company, actually…’). The Lego Movie broke box office records in 2014 and its message of creativity, teamwork and the ‘power of play’ made such a splash that it garnered more column inches than any children’s film to date and even attracted accusations of anti-capitalist propaganda. ‘Trotskyite’ Lego execs were delighted with the extra ticket and toy sales this free PR engendered, and a few younger minds were inspired to try living a little more Danishly.
After lunch (rye bread, salad and pork, as promised, with not a whiff of sucrose), I wangle myself a tour of the factory to see what all the fuss is about and am joined by some tourists from Japan who’ve flown in especially for the honour. I see where the minifigures are made, from their yellow smiling faces to their u-shaped hands and clip-on helmet hair. A couple of misprints are brutally discarded, with only the most pristine toys allowed to pass through to the boxing area to be packed by elves … I mean ‘workers’.
Lego isn’t the cheapest toy on the shelves, but quality is prized above all else. The founder, Ole Kirk Christiansen, once scolded his son, Godtfred, for announcing proudly that he’d managed to save money on paint by applying a thinner coat to each toy. Ole instructed him to recall the whole consignment and repaint each one, saying, ‘only the best is good enough’ – a phrase since adopted as the Lego motto.
Today, the company is estimated to be worth $14.6 billion (or £8.6 billion) and is the biggest toymaker in the world. There are 560 billion Lego pieces in existence, or 86 for each person on the planet (though having never been much of a Lego fan growing up, I can’t help wondering who’s got mine…). Lego produces 400 million tyres a year for its vehicles, making it officially the biggest tyre manufacturer in the world. Oh, and seven Lego sets are sold every second. There goes another one. And another. And another.
Ole Kirk Christiansen’s grandson, Kjeld, now owns the company, making him the richest man in Denmark. But he eschews tropical tax havens or the bright lights of Copenhagen and chooses to live in Billund, the tiny town where it all started. Lego HQ is still based in the Jutland backwater and high-flying folk from all over the world are encouraged to meet with the toymaker in the rear end of actual nowhere. The Kirk Christiansens haven’t just made Billund their home, they’ve paid for the town to have its own airport (the second biggest in Denmark, in a town of just over 6,000 people) a church, a community centre, a school, a youth club and a library. There’s a lot of love in Jutland for Lego’s Kjeld, who mysteriously changed the spelling of his surname to Kirk Kristiansen with a ‘K’ and is now referred to affectionately (if ill-advisedly) as ‘KKK’.
It’s safe to say that Lego Man is pretty pleased with his new job. Which is good, as otherwise we’d have uprooted our lives for nothing. No pressure… I ask what he enjoys most and he says that, aside from the food, the singing and the staff discount at the Lego Shop, the best thing is that the work is actually interesting. ‘A lot of people say that out here, people don’t bitch about work like they do at home. They don’t choose a profession based on how much they’re going to earn. They choose it based on what interests them. Education is free so anyone can train in whatever they want. You know you’re going to get taxed a lot anyway, so you may as well just focus on doing what you love, rather than what’s going to land you a massive salary.’
‘So there’s less incentive to sacrifice career fulfilment for the almighty dollar?’ I ask.
‘Precisely – because the more you earn, the more tax you pay.’
He tells me about a word he’s been taught that encapsulates the Danish attitude to work: ‘arbejdsglæde’ – from ‘arbejde’ the Danish for ‘work’
and ‘glæde’ from the word for ‘happiness’. It literally means ‘happiness at work’; something that’s crucial to living the good life for Scandinavians. The word exists exclusively in Nordic languages, and hasn’t been found anywhere else in the world. By contrast, the tourists I meet on my factory tour tell me that the Japanese have their own word that sums up their country’s approach to work: ‘karoshi’, meaning ‘death from overwork’. There’s no danger of that in Denmark.
Later that day, Lego Man and I are comparing diaries for the week ahead when he tells me he’ll be away for two days. ‘It’s a team retreat. We’ve got to take loose-fitting clothes and an open mind, apparently, to “explore engagement through yoga”.’
‘Sorry?’ I splutter. Lego Man has never saluted the sun in his life.
‘That’s what the email says…’ he points at his computer screen, slightly defensive now.
‘What does “engagement through yoga” even mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs, ‘but it looks like you won’t be the only one working in their PJs next week.’
Lego Man’s work-life balance seems to be in pretty good shape. But then, a family-owned toy company in the business of making kids happy and developing creativity was never going to be the most cut-throat of environments. I can’t help wondering whether Lego Man’s experience is unique. Could there really be something similar happening in all Danish workplaces? I decide to branch out and investigate other fields of working Danishly.
I do some digging and discover that public sector workers don’t do too badly, either. America’s ABC News anchor Bill Weir brought Denmark’s binmen to international fame a few years ago when he took a trip to Copenhagen and met Jan Dion. Jan told Bill how he loved collecting rubbish for a living because he worked just five hours a day and could then spend the rest of his time at home with his family or coaching handball at his children’s school (53 per cent of Danes do some kind of voluntary work, a Ministry of Culture poll found – something else that makes them happier, according to recent research from the University of Exeter). Jan told the world how no one in Denmark judged him on his career, and how he felt happy every day because he met friends along his route and old ladies would bring him cups of coffee. Inspired, I attempt to strike up conversation with my own refuse collector but he’s a) in a hurry, b) not great at English and c) not keen on coffee (possibly the only Dane in the country who isn’t). He lets me know this by making an ‘eurgh, yuck’ face when I show him a cafetière and offer to make him a cup. There’s to be no bonding over caffeinated beverages for us. But he is smiling and we establish, through a complicated series of hand gestures, that he likes his job.
The Year of Living Danishly Page 6
