Lost Time in Copenhagen
Nothing makes sense until the end. In this case, doubly so.
Pay attention, 007.
The world is a hypercomplex mess, and if we’re ever going to make sense of it we need to cultivate the ability to focus on the tiny details, then assemble the spaghetti-like mass of facts into something resembling a coherent whole. If you’re a writer, this probably sounds like something you want. Buckle up.
Random Diatribe 1
If you ignore them, they’ll go away. It worked for Bashar al Assad, apparently. I stopped watching the news on November the 6th (you may be wondering why), and a couple of blissful weeks later, my Significant Other told me the news: “he’s run away. Gone to Moscow.” Not to hell, then? But it’s a start. The optometrist didn’t see that coming, did he? Snigger.
That made it an easy resolution for 2025: no more news.
It’s great. No more environmental doom-scrolling (freeing up plenty of time for energy efficiency planning). No more being confronted with the latest Rolf Harris-style scandal every time I flip the BBC on to see how the old country is doing (badly, in general).
Oh, and no more of that orange numpty whose name we don’t mention in this house. I’m quietly hopeful the Assad Effect will work its magic on various other oppressors over the coming twelve months. We’ll see.
But being wilfully ignorant of the news has other benefits – not least the freed-up writing time – and it’s amazing how many people have come out and told me they’ve done the same or similar, and what a positive effect it’s had on their mental health. I’m up for some of that.
Random Diatribe 2
A Christmas break in Copenhagen sounded like heaven, until we both came down with some sort of tummy bug. We didn’t see much of the sights, but now know the Danish word for laxative and the location of every public toilet south of Kongens Nytorv.
One of the main things we missed out on was the staggering number of paintings by Paul Gauguin littering the city’s many galleries, but for different a reason. Turns out they’re unavailable due to – irony of ironies – the big Gauguin exhibition they’re organizing later in 2025. A good excuse to go back when the weather is better.
Another thing we missed was Freetown Christiania – a real-life hippie commune and, on paper, an independent state within Denmark. There’s a lot of interesting things to say about the practicalities of declaring independence from the country where you live and claiming you make your own rules, but Christiania for all the, er, issues, has survived in some form since the student protests of the 1960s, which says something.
We did, however, get as far as the delightfully loopy Church of Our Saviour with its bizarre external staircase. Wow. I thought Amsterdam was the city of incredible spires, but Copenhagen clearly went into rococo-overload at one point, and the Vor Frelsers Kirke out-baroques them all.
Random Diatribe 3
Writing ebbs and flows. It’s certainly been doing plenty of that over the last several months. I started November with every good intention of completing It’s Only the End of the World for NaNoWriMo. Pitch: Spinal Tap, in space. The biggest band of 2068 need to complete their overblown space-opera concept album The Void in order to pay astronomical tax bills. Naturally, that doesn’t go entirely to plan.
NaNoWriMo was something that also didn’t go to plan, and although I’ve got a chunk of the way further, I’m still facing a fairly large void somewhere around the middle (pun intended). Like every double album ever written, the band need to come up with something special to make the leap from the end of Side 2 to the uncharted territory that is Side 3. Watch this space, ha, ha.
Perhaps not unrelated, I’ve been here less and on Jericho Writers more. Via Jericho (a massive big recommend, by the way – none of us can do this alone) I’ve also been able to get some feedback on Valentine Klimt and the Revolution of Love, which has kick-started the whole process again.
The Part Where It All Comes Together… Hopefully
How? Not entirely sure, but it always does, somehow.
News from Denmark seems to follow us since our trip (having said I never watch the news, I know). A few weeks ago, we heard that the Danish king had amended his coat of arms, making space for the symbol of Greenland, at the price of finally tidying away the three crowns representing the defunct Kalmar Union – a nice bit of proto-EU pan-Scandinavian federalism that’s only been dissolved for five hundred years. Come on, Denmark!
Of course, all of this is apropos the machinations of a certain orange numpty (the one I’m still ignoring) who has no understanding of or respect for international treaties. Clearly, his parents never instilled a healthy fear of lawyers at an early age. Like we’ve always taught the kids: if you don’t tidy your toys, Inez Weski will come and get you.
That set me thinking. About sights seen, and the long tail of geopolitics, and how it’s been quite a while since I’d heard from Valentine Klimt and what she would be getting up to having returned from her adventures in Budapest at the end of 1968, having shown the boys how to do daring-do properly. A germ of a story takes shape…
Valentine Klimt and the Staircase to Heaven
Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen. Salty old girl of a town.
Is that what they think? Well, this girl’s never been described as old. Or salty — whatever that might mean — but here I am, standing on a windswept street in Christiania, taking in the view of the Church of Our Saviour. A baroque wedding cake affair, the famous gold-leaf-encrusted external staircase spiralling up to the misty heavens on this miserable November morning. What a sight.
But I’m not being paid by the spooks in London to gawp at the architecture.
I am being paid by the spooks, mind you, so I’d better get on with it. I head down Prinsessegata, on the way to the rendezvous.
It should be simple — a beginner’s job, they said. Denmark is an ally, so if I’m caught, MI6 can claim it was nothing to do with them, and they’ve got a couple of years to patch up the diplomacy while I’m rotting in a Danish nick.
There are worse fates, of course, not that I’m planning on getting caught. But hey, there’s got to be some jeopardy, otherwise it wouldn’t be worth sending their trainee spy on this mission.
All I have to do is photograph the promissory note written in 1461 by Christian I of Denmark after he lost the island of Forvik in the Shetlands to James III of Scotland in a game of whist. The islanders claim Christian didn’t have title to the island — therefore the note is invalid, therefore the island was never incorporated into the United Kingdom, therefore they don’t have to pay income tax. The usual form-your-own-micronation scam.
Christian’s copy of the note is rumoured to contain an addendum proving title, but also an embarrassing drunken couplet about how much he fancied James III’s sister, which is probably why the Danes don’t have the stupid thing on display in the Statens Bibliotek.
That’s where I come in.
PS: If you’re enjoying this, and want to find out where Valentine’s improbable adventure leads this time — slap bang into Freetown Christiania, if you must know — drop me a line.
But don’t get ideas. Legal warning: attempting to redraw the map of Denmark can have negative consequences.