With a Knife in his Hand

Being a Scandinavian, I have often been asked questions about the Social Democrats. What are the differences between Socialists and Social Democrats? Of course, there are many differences and both movements have changed over time. I usually point out two differences.

 

Unlike the Socialists, the Social Democrats do not nationalise industries and in general do not/did not interfere with free enterprise (for example, minimum wages are not fixed by the government but by the collective bargaining of the labour market parties). Business was left to do what business is best at: making money. The government did what it was best at: taking as much of the money as possible and spending it (redistribution). This model seemed to work well in the creation of the modern Welfare State.

 

The other difference is of a more historical nature. Social Democrats were not revolutionaries. Change was to be brought about by democratic means. Power was to be won in elections. Social Democrats became part of the establishment and the ruling class. Corpulence was a mark of success. As humour had it back in time:

 

If you see a Social Democrat with a knife in his hand, you can be sure that in his other hand he has a fork.

Motherly Care and Motherly Concern

It was back in the early 60s. I was twelve years old. Looking forward very much to the next day. I was going on a school excursion to Copenhagen. We had to suffer two museums – I suppose in order to justify the expense of a special train for the whole school – but the reward would be an evening at the amusement park Tivoli Gardens. The rides were wild (according to the standards of that time), and my mother apparently was a bit worried.

 

“Be sure to wear clean underwear”, she said. “I have put some on your bed. You never know what can happen at a place like that. What if you have an accident and are taken to hospital. Imagine what a shame it would be, if your underpants were dirty.”

 

I admit that I wondered a bit about her priorities. The shame that would follow from wearing dirty underwear seemed to be rated as a greater disaster than a broken leg or a cracked skull.

 

“And be sure to put your undershirt on the right way”, she added. “Don’t get the front and the back mixed up. What if they have to operate on you and turn you the wrong side up?”.

I looked at her. I’m not sure whether there was a glint in her eyes or not.

 

 

Forgotten - and forgiven?

Some years ago my mother-in-law was visiting. She was living far away, so we only saw her a couple of times every year. She was then in her late 60’s but bright and intelligent and interested in everything going on in the world.

 

One wintry afternoon she went out into the garden through the kitchen door. Five minutes later she was knocking on the window pane of the patio door. I unlocked it to let her in. She was fuming with rage: “why do you lock me out in this terrible cold?”. I tried to explain that she had gone out through the kitchen door, which was still unlocked. She wasn’t convinced. We were not always on the best terms.

I forgot about the incident.

I didn’t see her for a long time. My wife worried about her. She was getting forgetful. Didn’t remember where she put things.

Then one day we went to see her. When she came down the stairs towards me, her arms wide open and a genuine, warm smile upon her face, saying: “I’m so happy to see you!”, I knew something was wrong.

When she then added: “What’s your name?”, I knew it was serious.

She was diagnosed with Alzheimer. I would prefer to have had an argument with her from time to time.

A stone on the road

It was back when austerity was reality in Denmark, not just a concept. I was just twelve years old then, and I was earning my first money delivering bread for the local baker - before school and after school.

One morning I was heading back to the bakery with more baskets that could safely be secured to the bakers bicycle. I had only one hand on the handlebar, the other busy holding on to the baskets on the front of the bike. I was riding downhill. There was a stone lying on the road, and I saw it too late.

The crash was unavoidable. I found myself lying in the middle of the road, while the heavy bakers bicycle had rocketed across the road to bang into a motor car parked on the other side. And not just any motor car. It was the fishmonger's brand new delivery van, appearing in the street for the first time just a few days ago. The name of his shop was marked in glossy letters on the side of it. Now it didn't look so fine anymore.

Some kind people in the street helped me get back on my feet and inquired with concern whether I was hurt. I wasn't. Meanwhile the fishmonger had come out from his shop. He wasn't pleased.

"You better go back to the baker and tell him what you have done", he said, his head all red with anger.

I did. I was trembling. Would he be very angry? It must be costly to have the car repaired. Would I not be paid my money? Would my parents have to pay for the repair of the car? Would I loose my job?

"Are you hurt?" the baker asked worriedly. Having ascertained that I wasn't, he laughed scornfully. "What a bloody idiot", he said. "What a bloody fool, parking just there in the trajectory of your bicycle. That serves him well."

The baker didn't like the fishmonger - not one bit.

His wife did - but that's another story.

 

You say potatoes, I say kartofler .....

A multilingual society. We all know the problems involved here. Not only can't you understand those of your co-citizens who speak a language different from yours, but - much worse - they can't understand you.

 

If you think that's bad, then try to imagine a multilingual marriage. Only the consequences can be much more devastating. One spouse with one mother tongue, the other with another mother tongue, communication taking place in a shared foreign language.

 

The marriage of Mrs. Christensi and me is one such marriage. Our language of (mis)communication is English.

 

I remember an exchange of words from the early days of our marriage:

 

"I'm the boss, OK?" I said.

 

"OK, you're the bus - and I'm the bus driver", she replied.

 

And since then it has been like that.