Britain has been overrun by a host of articles telling us we have hygge wrong.
I have no idea what hygge is. In the early days of the hygge supremacy, this did not matter. Like a lot of things: Scandi-noir; Donald Trump; the X-factor; I presumed it was something that affected other people and I did not have to worry too much.
Turns out I was wrong. Like mindfulness, tea lights and pumpkin spice latte, it turns out that we have fallen for something that makes us less political and simultaneously more smug.
The Guardian, being the Guardian, has to go one step further. You typically get an article telling you that you have misunderstood what hygge is. This is, apparently, because it is untranslatable. Then they tell you what it means - rather clever, since this means they are translating an untranslatable word.
Then they tell you it's not as hygge-like as you thought.
I tell you, there's more articles about not understanding hygge than there are pieces by Polly Toynbee entitled "Listen to me, Everybody. I'm Very Clever." Which is dangerously unbalancing the newspaper - which was already suffering from a surge of articles on how best to get into dating when you're an aging divorcé who gets Tinder confused with LinkedIn.
Anyway, I'm off out to buy some Xmas jumpers, scented candles and mulling spices. I feel this vague need to get away from the hard, cold world into a warm, comfy, safe place. If only there were a word for it.