The Year of Living Danishly Read Online Free PDF

against for years before it was scrapped in 2010 has long been integral to Danish life. Since 1968, everyone has been recorded in a Central Population Register (CPR) and given a unique number, made up of their date of birth followed by four digits that end in an even number if you’re female and an odd number if you’re male. The number is printed on a yellow plastic card, which is ‘TO BE CARRIED AT ALL TIMES’ (the HR man has emailed in shouty capitals). Our unique numbers are needed for everything, from opening a bank account and healthcare to renting a property and even borrowing books from a library. (If only we could read books in Danish. Or knew where the library was. Or the word for ‘library’ in Danish.) I will even have a barcode that can be scanned to reveal my entire medical history. It all sounds very efficient. And I’m sure it would be relatively straightforward, too, if only we knew what we were doing, or how to get to the bureau where we’re supposed to register. As it is, this task takes all morning. Even so, we count ourselves lucky – new arrivals from outside the EU have to wait months for their residency cards and these need renewing every couple of years. Being an immigrant is not for the admin-phobic.
    Next, we need a bank account. A smart-looking man with closely cropped hair and distinctly Scandinavian-looking square glasses in the local (and only) bank greets us warmly and says that his name is ‘Alan’, before pointing to a name badge to reiterate this. I notice that it’s ‘Allan’ with two ‘l’s, Danish-style. Allan with two ‘l’s tells us that he will be managing our account. Then he pours us coffee and offers us our pick from a box of chocolates. I’m just thinking how civilised and friendly this is in comparison with my dealings with banks back home when he says:
    â€˜So, it looks like you have no money in Denmark?’
    â€˜No, we only arrived yesterday,’ Lego Man explains. ‘We haven’t started work yet, but here’s my contract, my salary agreement and details of when I’ll get paid, see?’ He hands over our documents and Allan studies them closely.
    â€˜Well,’ he concedes eventually, ‘I will give you a Dankort .’
    â€˜Great, thanks! What is that?’ I ask.
    â€˜It’s the national debit card of Denmark, for when you have some money. But of course it will only work in Denmark. And there can be no overdraft. And no credit card.’
    â€˜No credit card ?’
    I’ve been batting off credit card offers in the UK since leaving school without a penny to my name. Global financial crisis or otherwise, credit cards have been akin to a basic human right for my generation. Putting it on plastic is a way of life. And now we’re being made to go cold-hard-credit-card-turkey?
    â€˜No credit card,’ Allan restates, simply. ‘But you can withdraw cash, when you have it,’ he adds generously, ‘with this!’ He brandishes a rudimentary-looking savings account card.
    Cash ! I haven’t carried actual money since 2004. I’m like the Queen, only with a blue NatWest card and a penchant for impractical shoes. And now I’m going to have to operate in a cash-only world, with funny green, pink and purple notes that look like Monopoly money and strange silver coins that have holes in the middle? I don’t even know the Danish numbers yet! But Allan with two ‘l’s will not be moved.
    â€˜With this card,’ (he waggles the plastic rectangle in front of us as though we should be very grateful he’s trusted us with anything at all) ‘you can log on to internet banking and get access to government websites.’ This sounds very high-powered. I wonder whether we’re talking CIA-Snowden-style info before Allan clarifies: ‘You know, to pay bills, things like that.’
    Bank account in place (if empty) we can