On Thursday last week, Sarah, Daisy and I turned up armed with a handful of documentation (birth certificates, bank statements, egg and spoon race certificates) in order to get our resident’s permit. This is step one towards getting your CPR (citizen’s card), without which you can’t get a bank statement, see a doctor. Or breathe, probably.

This meant taking Daisy out of school for the afternoon, so that we could prove she existed.

The offices were down by the docks in a beautiful building called Pakhus 13. In days of yore it would have been a place where ships were loaded before setting sail. Nowadays, it’s one point of entry for people wanting to settle in Aarhus.

I’d been here before and I was expecting some riddle-me-ree type experience with hours of interrogation and form filling.

So, imagine my surprise when we were greeted by Claus Bang. Sarah had phoned the office and spoke to Claus a couple of days before. He poo-pooed the idea that residency would take weeks (as we’d previously been told) and invited us to pop in that afternoon.

Claus was lovely. He ran through the paperwork we’d got and gave us one extra form to fill in.

Thinking I was being helpful and ultra-thorough, I mentioned I’d got proof that we were staying in a summer house.

This was like pushing a red flashing button. I’d put my size 11 (46 in European) in it.

Oh dear. Claus’ face couldn’t hide his alarm.

‘You won’t be able to apply for residency with a summer house address. Not even us Danes would be allowed to do that,’ uttered Mr Bang.

At this point I should let you know that Bang is quite a common surname in Denmark. Think Bang & Olufsen. And I know one person in Risskov down the road called Henrik Bang.

I digress.

I politely pointed out to Claus that I’d been told we could live in a tent for all the authorities cared.

Claus seemed quite appalled to hear that this is what I’d been told. He said he’d see what could be done but...

Me and my big mouth.

I was beginning to feel that this visit was going to go exactly the way I’d feared.

After a few minutes - it wasn’t busy - we were ushered to see a woman called Sonja, who seemed to have had her entire personality removed.

Her sullen, humourless disposition was almost funny. We hadn’t met anyone like this in Denmark. She was straight out of some universal civil servant jelly mould.

However…following a slight hiccup with Daisy’s birth certificate (we needed to present her with the one with her parent’s names on it) Sonja just tapped away and occasionally printed something out, stapled it and added it to a pile of paper.

After about fifteen minutes we were presented with our residency certificate. Daisy’s would follow by post.

Then it was back to reception.

Five minutes later, we were sent back to a desk next to Sonja’s and a blond man who’s name escapes me did some further typing and clicking.

Then he handed us two sheets of paper. One each.

Each bore our CPR numbers.

Daisy’s would need to be applied for once her residency paperwork arrived.

Then we were handed a ‘Welcome To Aarhus’ pack and told where our doctor was.

Done.

After thanking Claus, we left and sat on the nearby commuter train platform. In a daze. How could this be?

Not only could we stay in Denmark, we could also pay taxes and use their NHS. Oh and get educated up to and including University.

Phew.