Hygge? Mate, I invented hygge. Candles round the bath, posh socks, cosy conversations about the future, all of that good stuff, that was me. And yet again, the Danes have claimed it as their own. They describe it as “The absence of anything annoying or emotionally overwhelming; taking pleasure from the presence of gentle, soothing things.” I describe it as “obvious”.Day after day I wake with the sour realisation that in lieu of actually copyrighting the concept I should have at least printed it out and posted it to myself. But, typical, like stripped wooden floors and happiness, the Scandinavians swooped in and claimed it as their own. Sure, when I saw the whole thing rumbling into the style magazines perhaps I should have called my lawyers or sent Denmark proof. Photos of baby Eva naked on a rug by the fire, or screengrabs of all the apologetic cancellations I’ve made to friends, choosing to stay in bed with Black Mirror instead of going out, or recordings of my boyfriend’s daily frustration that I need two drawers for my pyjama collection, but what are you going to do? I know, and now you know, and everyone’s totally into it, and that should be the main thing.

Except it keeps happening. The cosiness industry is watching me, noting my habits – my refusal to get dressed unless faced with a court appearance became “loungewear”; my cheese on toast dinners became “comfort food”; watching telly in bed became the multinational entertainment company Netflix – and profiting from them mercilessly.

My body is made of blankets. My blood runs hot with tea

Last week saw the launch of a Spanish video platform called Napflix. A place “where you can find the most silent and sleepy content selection to relax your brain”. A gentle scroll reveals a clip of a rotisserie chicken rotating, a lecture on quantum physics, and a documentary about tupperware. Which, of course, I’ve been all over for years. Check my laptop history for two-hour YouTube videos teaching you how to paint autumn trees, or for the hair braiding tutorials by a woman who sounds like she’s had a recent death in the family, or the sleeping cats, or the bad nail art videos which end with an almost tearful smile to camera that makes you want to reach into the screen and tell the Japanese teenager that everything will be OK, you promise.

With the right videos and a confident lug of procrastination, one can relax not only the brain, but the jelly around it, too – the viscous memories of getting things wrong, the sense that you will never be good enough. Half an hour into a grouting film and your anxiety about the relationship with your stepdad will be anaesthetised and shrunk to the shape of a small ball of putty, which can be evenly and pleasingly smoothed into a gap between shower tiles.

The world is finally catching on to my longheld belief that it is rubbish to have responsibilities and energy and much better instead to curl up and watch Seinfeld; that comfort should be the end goal of work, love, family, fashion, food, rather than a footnote. But have I seen a single 20% of profits? No I have not. My body is made of blankets. My blood runs hot with tea. I haven’t stood up for longer than 10 minutes in my entire adulthood and every life choice has been made based on its proximity to a well-bled radiator. And still, not one stamped cheque. Not one invitation to talk at a conference, or in parliament, or from bed as a protest against summer or something.

I sound bitter – I’m not. I’m confused. Because I am the walking hygge, I am a clock going back, I am washable cashmere. That floppy relief parents feel once their children have gone to sleep – I didn’t need a child to feel that feeling, of giving in to the sofa, of accepting a tumbler of wine with the crumpled ecstasy of a former addict. I am unapologetic central heating, sweet pastries and milk. I exist to be viewed in candlelight. There is no need to read the books, to bother the therapists, to enrol in the hygge adult education class at Morley College. Those seeking inner peace should simply ask me for the secret. And I will tell them: nap.

Email Eva at e.wiseman@observer.co.uk or follow her on Twitter @EvaWiseman