It would be fair to say that my attempts to learn the lingo here have not been overly successful.
Almost a year on and I still can’t really hold much of a conversation in Danish.
In some ways, though, it’s less of a hindrance and more a blessing in disguise.
The last time I was back in the UK, walking into the arrivals hall at Stansted was like a trip into auditory hell.
The sound of so many Estuary-tongued oiks in the same room, fresh from their booze-fuelled jollies in Marbella or Mykonos, was enough to send me into a pit of despair.
I’m a horrible snob. The worst kind of elitist arsehole. But I don’t care.
When I hear Danes out and about I have absolutely no idea if the person is an uneducated oaf droning on about football (as is usually the case in England) or a posho from Hellerup decrying the influx of immigrants.
They could be staring straight at me and bombarding me with the worst insults imaginable but I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea what they’re saying.
And that’s how I like it.
In my mind, almost everyone here is well-mannered, educated and cultured.
It’s a completely fantastical scenario I have made up to make myself feel better about the grubby reality of the world.
But at least it means I’m spared the sheer imbecility of the majority of little Englanders.