The Embarrassing Relatives...

This is my first go at a fanfic in humon's captivating "Scandinavia and the World" idiom. For those of you who have come here from the other fandoms I write for, especially the Discworld, if you haven't come across humon before, let me recommend her ongoing cartoon strip. Basically each country has at least one "avatar" who represents the stereotype of that nation in the eyes of the rest of the world. They generally come in twos: a Brother and a Sister. Thus Brother Sweden is an uptight anal retentive who shops at IKEA – in fact, he personifies IKEA – and generally needs to unbutton his shirt and live a bit. Sister Sweden is – well, liberated. The fun lies in the interactions of the various national sprites as they play out the social and historical friendships and niggling irritations between them. As it says on the box, this is largely Scandinavia's view of the rest of the world and the Nordic sprites are the central characters. After all, humon herself is Danish and now ranks alongside Sandy Toksvig as a Great Dane.

"And did those feet..." hummed Denmark, as he arrived outside England's house. Sweden flicked a slap at his head, ineffectually.

"Behave!" he said. "We're guests!"

"And besides, they buy a lot of your furniture." Denmark said, pointedly. "Can't annoy the customers!"

Sweden flicked another rather limp slap at Denmark, who dodged. See the Spirit of Denmark. In form he is a boisterous youth in late teenage, with sandy-yellow hair. His t-shirt is red with a large white cross. It is stained with near-misses where the beer bottle has not quite engaged with his mouth. Indeed, he carries a bottle of Carlsberg Elefante with him. It is part of the national image he has to project, after all.

"...walk upon England's mountains green." the third member of the party hummed. He stroked his pet fish, perplexed. "Well, he can't have done, can he? I mean, England doesn't actually have any mountains!"

Norway's arm stretched out, taking in the swell of the distant Pennines.

"Nice hills, I'll grant you. But never mountains." Norway is the tallest of the three: an easy-going giant with curly blonde hair and the suspicion of a beard. He wears the intricate interlocking Nordic cross, blue inside white on a red background. The fish burbled up at him, seemingly content and untroubled by being out of water.

Sweden was inclined to agree with Norway on the subject of Britain's mountains. By Scandinavian standards, they were hardly spectacular. Even Finland had bigger hills.

"Just don't say it out loud." he warned Norway. "Brother England is quite unaccountably proud of his hills. Which is how that wretched song got written in the first place."

"I've often wondered how that could have happened." Denmark mused, thoughtfully. "After all, Israel's a long way away, this was in the really old days, before Brother Italy made them an offer they couldn't refuse, so how can this guy from Israel end up on a hiking trip in England?"

Sweden glared at him.

"I mean, it's a bit out of area for him..."

Under Sweden's withering gaze, Denmark faltered into silence.

Regard Sweden. He has the appearance of a librarian in a very strict library that prides itself on shelving exactly according to the Dewey Decimal system. His glasses gleam, impeccably clean. Not a hair on his well-coiffeured blonde head is out of place. In appearance no older than about twenty-seven, he has taken on the self-appointed role as Father of the group. Or at least Big Brother. His shirt is royal blue and his tie golden-yellow.

"Look." he said, patiently. "We've been invited to afternoon tea at the Englands. You know how formal they are. We do not want to upset them. Best behaviour is expected. Especially you, Denmark. Do I make myself clear?"

Norway and Denmark agreed, suspiciously quickly and without argument. The three walked on towards England's home. The Englands, at least for the moment, were living in Yorkshire, an arrangement nicely situated for the Scandinavians to visit.

Denmark paused, and looked wistfully back towards the sea.

"Remember the old days, Norway? We didn't wait for an invitation then, we just parked the longboat and pillaged a monastery."

Norway grinned . "Scandinavian boys on a run ashore."

"That." Sweden said, firmly, "was then. This is now. We behave ourselves. Am I understood?"

Sweden looked more than ever like a librarian expressing offence against somebody breathing too loudly. Denmark and Norway sighed loudly and walked on in silence towards England's house, visible in the distance. It looked just like a classic semi-detached suburban house. But as all the Spirits knew, appearances were deceptive and could be changed at a whim. They might, for example, have made landfall in England's domain at the White Cliffs of Dover, and visited a stately home or a castle in Kent that projected a different sort of Englishness. Sweden knew this well enough: his favourite home was in the southlands of Scania where summers were warm and winters clement. But there was nothing to stop him trying out Jonskippansken (except perhaps the sounds, smell and essential black sooty mess of iron mining) or even a log cabin further North, if he chose. Sister Finland, he knew, favoured a lakeside retreat at Tuonela where she could feed the black swans and indulge her moods1(1). And Denmark didn't care where the hell he was so long as there was a bar.

A bar. Sweden shuddered. It was going to be a long day.

1(1) Finland's national composer Sibelius set episodes of the Kalevela epic poem to music. The Swan of Tuonela is a sombre piece about the spirit of death – a black swan – sailing the dark lake of death, doom and despondency in the far North of the country.