CAPTAIN COPENHAGEN

Captain Copenhagen tells the story of Helen and her daughter Leonie. After Leonie is diagnosed with depression at 14 years old, Helen decides that they need to move to the country that has been attributed as one of the happiest in the world, Denmark. Her hope is that she can use the country, culture and everything Danish to “cure” her daughter and make her happy again. Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.

This blog is a work of fiction. It includes comedic episodes from Helen’s perspective as she tries to navigate Danish life, and more subdued episodes from Leonie’s perspective as she tries to navigate her mother.

All episodes can be found at www.captaincopenhagen.co.uk.

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TRIGGER WARNING: Captain Copenhagen explores the topic of mental health.

The Soft Ice Celebration

Helen, Mother

I had been falling short. My Danish plans had not been going as… well… planned. My mistakes, my ‘Helening’, were getting in the way of Denmark and everything Danish making Leonie happy.

But…

But but but…

I was putting together a new plan. A perfect new plan. A perfect foolproof almost 100% certain to work plan. I was putting things in motion and I would be able to implement them soon. Until then, I had one goal and one goal only.

No more ‘Helening’. No more mistakes. No more getting in Denmark’s way.

Be careful, be cautious, be perfect.

Ok, so I had many goals. But they could all be combined and encompassed into one super realistic achievable goal. Be the perfect superhero mum who doesn’t make mistakes.

Easy-peasy.

And I had created the first perfect scenario in which to achieve it.

After several days in bed, Leonie had completed her first week back at school. The way she had seemed on that first day I was concerned that she might not make it through more than a couple of days, but here she was, having gotten through a whole week. We were going to celebrate and I knew just the thing that would do it.

Ice cream in the middle of a cold March might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for professional ice cream eaters like us, it was not just our cup of tea, we would quite happily take the entire teapot.

When we arrived at our destination I acted as if we had casually stumbled upon it, but I had done my research. I knew exactly where we were going, and this little cafe on the corner had the highest number of highly rated reviews that highly mentioned ice cream. Leonie was going to get the best Danish ice cream related experience you could get. The perfect experience. 

‘Where do you want to sit?’ I asked her.

I knew exactly where we were going to sit. Photos had shown me that the best table was the one by the window, bathed in sunlight, looking out at the surrounding picturesque Copenhagen scenery. I would simply usher her eyes in that direction, where the sun was beautifully and idyllically shining through the-

‘There.’

She pointed to a small table at the opposite side of the room. The one next to the toilets.

‘Okay… or we could…’

I slowly started pivoting her to face the other direction. The correct direction. The direction towards the window. ‘How about there? Where you’ve got the light coming through the-’

‘Too bright,’ she said.

And so we sat by the toilets.

In the darkness.

It wasn’t the most perfect of starts, but it wasn’t a mistake, a ‘Helening’. It was just something that didn’t go to plan. Something that we could get past. The table, after all, was not the main event.

I told her that she was in for a surprise and headed to the counter. Her blank expression changed and she raised her eyebrows ever so slightly, which told me that this was just about acceptable.

And I had one hell of a surprise in store.

Denmark’s biggest achievement is not their impressive childcare, nor their environmentally friendly energy. It’s not even their free university education.

It’s soft ice.

For a Danish soft ice, imagine that 99, ‘Mr Whippy’ style ice cream, in a waffle cone. As if that wasn’t exciting enough, they will then gently roll the ice cream in the topping of your choice, coating it in anything from sweetened cocoa, to hundreds and thousands, to small liquorice pieces. It is unmatched.

And I was going to make sure that Leonie feasted upon said soft ice. Nothing, like giving her a choice, was going to get in the way of that.

Approaching the counter, I ordered two. There was no doubt about the topping. It should be cocoa, absolutely coated in cocoa. The perfect flavour balance of chocolate and vanilla. It was perfect. It was happiness inducing. The Danes are geniuses.

I proudly returned to our table and handed over her soft ice. A pure white vanilla, coated in brown powdery sugariness. She stared at it, giving it a great deal of consideration. Eventually, and slowly, taking it from me.

This was it, this was perfect, nothing could go wrong.

And then I remembered…

Sami Jacks.

Or more specifically, the Sami Jacks incident.

The year was 2015. Leonie was no older than six. She was playing with a young Sami Jacks, her then best friend. Times were joyful, fun was had, smiles were abundant. Until suddenly, the two broke out into an argument. Leonie, verbally attacked, pushed him down. The ice cream that he had just bought with the very last of his pocket money spilling onto the soft dirt ground. Unsalvageable. Inedible.

A pure vanilla now coated in light brown ‘powderiness’. Not dissimilar to the pure vanilla coated in light brown ‘powderiness’ that I had just handed to her.

He said he would never speak to her again in that dramatic way that children do and never uphold. But he cried. She cried. It was a sad and dramatic day.

Surely, she wouldn’t… remember…

Would she?

I snatched it from her.

I wasn’t going to chance it.

‘This one’s mine! I’m so greedy I wanted two! Let me just go and get yours!’

I was not going to make a mistake. Unhappy memories would not be brought up during happy Danish ice cream time. Sadness would not be induced.

Five minutes later I returned with a second soft ice, this time coated in hundreds and thousands. There was no way it could go wrong, and hundreds and thousands of ways it could go right. Again she stared at it.

A little too intensely…

Maybe she thought it looked tasty, maybe it was exactly what she wanted.

Or…

The year was 2019. A young Leonie was just ten years of age. She was surprising a friend for her birthday. At school, in December, in the snow. They set off party poppers and threw confetti. They made a mess, but they also made joy. Until they were spotted by a teacher, disciplined, given detention and forced to clean up every speck from the white floor outside.

A vanilla white snow sprinkled in a shower of colours, not dissimilar to…

Snatch!

Leaving her frozen in place. Hand held up, frozen and cupped where the cone used to be.

‘I have such a big appetite today. I’ll be right back’.

I couldn’t risk it. I was not going to let myself mess anything up. We were going for perfection. The third cone I tried had to be right. Liquorice. Small black pieces coating a-

She has a fear of ants.

‘No!’

I shouted before I was even able to make it back to the table.

I headed back to the counter with three ice cream cones in hand. The one that was originally supposed to be mine now left melting on a napkin on the table.

Surely there was something. I assessed the ice cream. Maybe the soft ice wasn’t the way to go? I had been so sure of it, but maybe the toppings were proving too dangerous. Maybe I had to doubt the thing that I was so certain of? Afterall, my stubbornness had been my downfall in the past. Maybe I needed to go for something else? There were still plenty of other ice creams that I’m sure would have just as much Danish influence on her.

Toffee! It wasn’t soft ice but they had toffee! Her favourite flavour that had always made her smile in the past. What was I thinking? Of course this was the way to go! If she loves English toffee ice cream, surely Danish toffee ice cream would be even better!

I asked for a scoop and as the server was starting to scoop said scoop…

It looked like the round golden door knob that Leonie had dented when she angrily hit it after I told her that her father and I were getting divorced.

The colour, the shape, the dents.

……..I

……..I decided against it




So, in the end, during our celebratory ice cream outing I ate four soft ice: two cocoa, one hundred and thousand, and a liquorice.

Leonie ate a pretzel.

A neural safe pretzel and a neutral safe outing.

It was a step in the right direction.

But I’m not sure if what I was feeling was happiness, or just very very sick.