Wednesday, 28 December 2016

I was hygge before it was cool.

Last month I went to my parents house for dinner, the lighting was low and candles were burning. 'It's huh-gah,' my mum proclaimed and with that the term 'hygge' officially became mainstream.

The thing is, I'm Scottish so I'm used to long, dark, cold winters. And I'm lazy, so I'm used to long periods sat on the couch in fleecy pyjamas with the heating on. Since buying a flat 4 years ago I have shunned expensive nights on the town in towering heels for cheap nights in the flat by candlelight. It's not that I'm trendy, it's that I'm tired and skint.

I don't need a 'Little Book of Hygge,' I was rocking a grey cotton lounge combo long before EasyJet started offering cheap returns to Copenhagen.

Like 'Normcore' and the 'Dad bod' before it, 'hygge' has taken a simple concept and given it a rebrand. Staying in, being at home, spending time with family: all everyday, unglamorous albeit fulfilling achievements. Yet without the sexy skandi terminology why are we so ashamed to just stay at home and vegetate?

The period between Christmas and New Year is the perfect time to exercise your right to lounge, so put on your comfiest pyjama bottoms and a jumper that has seen better days and chill the fuck out. 

Turns out I do need the Little Book of Hygge