Still going strong

During my first course in calculus, Ambjörn the TA was going through whatever it was and I innocently asked “Isn’t this, like, fractal?” He spun around: “Yes, exactly!”, spun back towards the blackboard and proceeded, chalk blazing, to explain how the current course segment was tied to fractals, their implications for geometry and how that in turn related to other branches of mathematics, ever faster and further into ever more exotic subjects while we students could just hold on to our desks for dear life in the storm blast of imparted knowledge. Forty-five minutes later he suddenly made a double-take, checked the time, and with an embarrassed cough noted: “I think we ran over the time a bit there, let’s take the break now.”

During the break Å accused me of setting Ambjörn into self-oscillation and suggested I shut up in the future, lest we never manage to cover what was actually coming on the exam.

Well, I did pass the calculus exams, eventually even the dreaded Theory exam, though that took me five attempts (in no way an exceptional number). Still, perhaps that was more due to diligently doing all exercises and repeatedly reading the books, rather than thanks to Ambjörn’s TA efforts, which, while always entertaining and mind-opening, tended to veer off from the official subject into Deep Maths.

Eventually I became a colleague of Ambjörn’s, whose wide-ranging interests could no longer be contained within either the Department of Mathematics or that of Physics and thus had moved into Computer Science (which at the limit contains all other sciences). Passing his room would often imply getting drawn into impromptu lectures on maths and their relation to everything else in (and occasionally outside) the universe. He even stored some of his parabolic rock-melting mirrors in our lab, though we irreverently ended up using them as towel racks.

Today, Ambjörn was officially retired, though, as is the custom in academia, that simply means the end of salary, but not necessarily the end of research. So, I returned to the Alma Mater for Ambjörn’s Last Lecture, which, true to form, ranged from how to explain what weekday it will be in a million days, over homotopies of snakes on a torus, to how human culture is an integral over time.

I regretted Honeybuns wasn’t there to get some kind of idea of where I come from, intellectually, but the OBCM was there and afterwards we had a nice chat about teaching and geometric modelling over a cuppa.

If this is the last time I hold you

A song that pops up in my head every now and then, but that I hadn’t been able to place. For some reason I thought it might come from a Fame episode, but googling around I eventually found it was actually from the final episode of Secret Army, which in addition to this has the most haunting opening titles of any TV programme I’ve seen (the images played in reverse for the end titles).

Two similar

Somw while back my mobile operator decreed that I, for unclear reasons, needed a new SIM card. This of course required me to reconstruct my phonebook. At the time I did not make the connection, but it was at about then that Troll, trusty member of the Posse, went incommunicado. My texts were not responded to and I only got a voice-mail prompt when calling. After a couple of months we started to get worried—what could be wrong?
Eventually I had a brainwave and googled up her office phone number. She answered immediately with her usual cheery “Helloo!” It turned out that her mother not only lives on the same street but has the exact same extremely uncommon name. Apparently she had been utterly consternated by the barrage of invitations to various mysterious activities by an unknown man. Ah well, that should be suitable punishment for the lack of name imagination. And we have Troll among us again.

We band of brothers

Some ambitious fellows had arranged for a modelling weekend at the Swedish Military Vehicle Museum. I haven't built an armour model for surely 35 years, but a weekend devoted to modelling is to be cherished.

I carefully packed my kit on Friday evening, so that I wouldn’t have to panic-pack in the morning. I decided to take along Italeri’s Sd.Kfz. 234/2 Puma, Airfix’ R.A.F. Refuelling set, and Tamiya’s Porsche 911 GT2. (The latter aren’t exactly armour, but at least surface vehicles.)

I got to the train just in time and as the early Saturday tour was quite uncrowded I managed to get a nice seat on the top floor. With Svealandsbanan, the trip to Strängnäs doesn’t even take an hour, but I’d have to wait about as long again for the bus to take me the last bit to the museum. At least it was sunny. I had but sat down at the bus stop as I heard an ”Oi!” from behind. There was Olle in his car. “I thought I’d find you here, let’s go.” An anonymous sign pointed at the “VEHICLE MUSEUM”, a functional-looking barn. We were greeted by the guys who’d arrived the day before and had already laid out the tables, lights, compressors and such on the mezzanine floor, with an excellent view of the exhibits.

The museum had a very special smell of oil and metal, many of the exhibits are kept in running shape, so now and then the public are given the full experience of 50 Mg chunks of roaring, clanking, smoking (though not firing) metal rolling about on the meadow outside the museum.

More modellers arrived from all corners of Sweden, until we were some 20+, laying out our models and gear on the tables. Ordinary museum visitors also turned up, some curiously asking us about our esoteric activities, and receiving enthusiastic explanations.

I started on the Puma, though didn’t get that far before it was seminar time.

Later in the afternoon we were invited to a private showing of the museum exhibits. After a while the curator got a bit concerned we wouldn’t get through them all before nightfall, what with the constant barrage of questions and comments from both people with deep knowledge about the subject and the rest of us, while not very knowledgeable, still intensely interested. We weren’t in any hurry, though and the curator indulged us. I have discussed the authenticity of preserved aircraft before, and the curator was happy to point out that many of the exhibits were not in original shape, having been modified, and then possibly unmodified again, repainted in whatever paints had been around at various points in their history, and that some simply were one-shot test examples that were unrepresentive of their type. “Photographs show what things looked like at one point, but there’s no telling what happened ten minutes before, or ten minutes after.”

When we had gone through the exhibition, now long after closing time, a question was timidly put forward: “Could I sit in the Trabant, just for a bit?” “Uh well, OK, but don’t hurt yourself.” The dams broke: People scattered like dropped marbles and were soon crawling all over the vehicles, cameras clicking away; everywhere was happy laughter and smiling heads poking out of hatches, guns were traversed and every bolt, pin, and attachment point scrutinised and documented. Most congregated around the celebrities: T-34, Marder, Sherman, but some connoiseurs preferred to explore Soviet amphibians or, as noted, East German bucket cars. (You will notice that I haven’t made any mention of Swedish vehicles so far—they tend to be fairly uncharismatic, possibly with the exception of the ”S” tank, and were accordingly mostly ignored.) The curator watched the proceedings with a beatific smile, most pleased with visitors who really appreciated the museum.

A view from the mezzanine onto early WWII Swedish armour.	Some armour of my own.
Down the hatch!	The driver’s seat in a Universal Carrier. A particularly nice touch is the bolt in the middle of the steering wheel—just made for crushing your sternum. Note also the footprint on the shelf where I stepped to get into the vehicle.

Finally I felt that I, too, had to try something and clambered into the driver’s seat of a Universal Carrier. I found it utterly lacking in any comfort or human factors thinking. The steering wheel was mere centimetres from my sternum, the brake pedal was located where it was quite convenient for the passenger to reach, I found a set of instruments on a panel by my right shoulder where my aging eyes couldn’t even focus on them and the front armour extended just to my eyebrows. I presume any road accident would have lead to instant death or major injury.

Eventually people felt that it started to get late and we profusely thanked the museum staff for their forebearance. Then a car convoy took off for Strängnäs and the pizza place that had been recommended as the most priceworthy by the locals. The quiet Saturday evening was suddenly shattered by laughing, talking, and hungry modellers. After dinner we continued to the youth hostel where some of us were staying the night. Others decided to keep us company for a while before they returned to their sleeping places. I realised I was but an amateur as everybody else pulled out modelling gear and started working in the kitchen. For my part I loaded a documentary on strategic bombing in my laptop. So the evening proceeded in happy intercourse. I decided to withdraw to bed before midnight and feel contentedly asleep to the sound of peals of laughter in the kitchen.

Next morning. An early rise and quick ablutions before we returned to the museum from where a new convoy took off and soon turned onto a small gravel road, at the end of which was the former mobilisation stores where the museum now kept the items they did not have on current display. ”Some 3–400 vehicles, depending on how you count.” Obviously we could not study them all, but we got extensive samples. The sheds were packed with armour, trucks, engines, guns, bicycles, but also more unexpectedly cradles, looms, sleds and a mysterious object that looked like a huge champagne cork in fabric. As densely as they were stored, it was soon obvious that the easiest way of moving about was to mount a tank and then proceed stepping from one to the next. The air was filled with joyous laughter as discoveries were made and people tried to seat themselves in the vehicles. My attempts confirmed that tanks evidently are made for short, very short, and thin people, and even they should expect to have their craniums banged about by various corners and edges. I dare not imagine the noise from shooting with large-calibre guns in those enclosed spaces.

A nondescript façade.	More camouflagey things to crawl about on.
The thing with amphibious vehicles is that you can only get in at the top and for some reason they never have ladders.	A very realistically weathered lorry.

Eventually we returned to the museum for more seminars, or should I say, intensely interactive discussions between skilled modellers. Towards the end of the day I set up for painting some Porsche parts. The Humbrol metallic colours are pretty temperamental when airbrushed and have a tendency to clog the nozzle. High pressure is indicated. This was really my only opportunity for aggravation during the entire weekend.

Cleaning up was quickly done with all hands on deck and then we all went our separate ways with happy smiles, new friendships having been forged and promises of future events exchanged.

Thank you

Hangover

But for my own part I’m fine. We spent New Year’s eve at K’s home over a most exquisite dinner. We also test-played Orangino. No clue why it’s named that way, but the box is very orange. The idea of the game is that you pick cards which each contain a claim about your character and then you and and all the others state how well that claim fits you. If your assessment agrees with that of your friends, you get points. Clearly the way to win is to assess yourself the way you suspect your friends see you, not necessarily truthfully (and of course, it might be argued that your truth does not necessarily trump your friends’s truth(s) anyway). In the end, I won, Honeybuns exclaiming: “…because you’re such a caricature of yourself!” Yeah, I guess I manage to keep my public face on even in private.

Eventually we trudged off through a thickening snowfall to Skansen where we caught the last bit of the New Year’s show (we didn't actually see any of it, coming so late we ended up behind some thousands of others), sang along and cheered at the new year. The snowfall allowed us to see only the most powerful of the fireworks, but K had brought along sparklers that we waved around and also handed out to some tourists who hadn’t thought of bringing their own pyrotechnics.

We slipped and slid down the hill from Solliden and wandered homewards. I thought there were fewer over-inebriated revellers out than usual, possibly due to the snowfall. It wasn’t all that cold though, probably just around 270 K, but I still winced at the sight of various young women walking around in short skirts and ultra-thin pantyhose.

A day without train

In the morning Honeybuns and I were slow to awake, but eventually got up and had breakfast and then went for a stroll, guided by Johan. I often am surprised by places that turn out to look exactly like they do on TV. This little French village looked like exactly like a little French village. I half expected a cheerful crowd to come around the corner, waving bottles of Pommac.

The church had seemingly a large number of secondary shrines along the walls in proportion to the length of the walls. There seemed to be a large number of slogans about the importance of religion—I wondered whether they always used to be there or if the Catholic church felt the need to rally under the onslaught of modern times and embarrassments.

We did a bit of shopping and I had spun up my French enough (it always takes me a couple of days) to use it on the shopkeepers and noted we really were far in the countryside, usually the French quickly change to English when they hear me mangling their language, but here they apparently Don’t Do English.

After lunch we decided to go further afield and visit some other villages even further up in the mountains and first went to Saint-Martin-de-Pallières which had an even smaller population, even more slanting streets, quainter houses and a big fortress on top. And a church of course. Tourist information signs told us that after the Revolution, authorities had attempted to rename the town to something less Christian, but this had not stuck. What still was left, was the public belltower, erected to provide a secular counterpoint to the church bell.

We drove away through the Bois de Mont Major, a landscape which reminded me much of Kinnekulle. In the middle of the forest we found a field of poppies and had to stop to listen to the silence.

Then we continued until we got to Ginasservis, a somewhat larger village with an even more typical French square. We stopped for something to drink and relaxed in the shadow of the planes.

Eventually we returned home, where we decided we needed some additional ingredients for dinner and went to the local supermarket. I was quite fascinated by the outdoor laundromat by the supermarket.

Then, time to prepare food. We would make ratatouille as we by chance had found a recipe in last Sunday’s Dagens Nyheter that I’d brought along for reading when we left, this for a grill-prepared ratatouille that actually looked just like the one in the film.

Ingredients	Finished course

We had our dinner on the terrace behind the house and watched the sun set over the lavender fields.

Upgrade tradeoffs

The Palm Zire I bought as a dissertation present for myself has been getting on a bit in years, so as a late Christmas present my friend J gave me a Palm Tungsten C that he’d had lying about without ever using.

Now I have transferred the data from the old machine to the new and am suffering from mixed feelings. The new machine is a lot faster, has a colour screen and lots more memory, but the old one is still working, weighs a lot less, and, in particular, has been riding in my pocket for almost six years. (It’s had several predecessors back to the first Palm I got in 1997, but this is the individual I’ve had the longest.) It feels a bit like taking an old and well-beloved dog out behind the shed. For the nonce, I have topped up its batteries and let it rest on the desk. (Where in another drawer lies the Sharp PC-1401 I bought in 1984.)

CO2-minimal cooking

Last summer my friend Charger gave me a solar cooker. I was a bit intimidated by the package, but when I invited friends over for a summer cookout to celebrate my refurnished balcony, I decided I would finally break out the cooker and see how to construct the thing. It turned out to be quite simple—a single large piece of corrugated fibreboard covered with reflective foil on one side to be folded into a reflector and a largish, transparent plastic bag to wrap one's cooking vessel in order to keep air circulation from cooling it. I stirred in the ingredients for a veggie stew in my black castiron pot, wrapped it loosely in the bag and then set it in the sun for five hours. It didn't exactly become hot to the touch, but it certainly cooked the food, which was wolfed down by the guests, so it must have been good. (It contained cheese, so I couldn't eat it myself. I also consider it a good principle to let others taste my experimental cooking first.)



We did use the new grill as well. While considerably less energy-efficient also less weather-dependent, even if we had sun all day.



My balcony is probably too windy for optimal gardening, so the tomatoes and strawberries were still green, but the chilli was plundered on its one fruit to contribute to the stew.

Behind the scenes

The first weekend in April is traditionally the time for IPMS Open, the major plastic modelling event of the year. So also this year.

As all such events, what the public sees is just the tip of the iceberg of work. Planning work in principle started as soon as the previous Open ended. This is one event I thankfully do no organise, but I followed the committee out of the corner of my eye, as it were, as they revised rules, sent out invitations, booked the premises and necessary equipment, dealed with traders, enrolled judges and did the hundreds of lesser and greater things that have to be prepared even for an event of this relatively modest size, typically counting around a hundred exhibitors and a few hundred visitors. And of course, when the call came, I volunteered my muscle power for the weekend itself.

So, 08:00 on the sunny Saturday (on time, despite an unnecessary public transport detour), found me and others waiting by Skytteholmsskolan for someone to come by with the keys. A number of traders were already there and had started unloading their vans and trailers. Kipper spotted Tamiya's Mitsubishi “Betty” and immediately claimed it for his. The first sale of the day and the traders hadn't even unloaded. A couple of minutes later the key person arrived and we started turning the school's gym and canteen into exhibition spaces, moving chairs and tables. The secretariat set up their computers, printers, lists and other paraphernalia and when the contestants started checking in, everything was ready.

I had time to browse the trader tables a bit and noted that I was much more fascinated going through the old Airfix and Matchbox kits, the ones I'd once built and the ones I hadn't gotten around to, than the modern high-tech kits.

A tour round the exhibits. Exceptionally large ship classes, seems ships have come into fashion. Lots of helicopters, too, this year. Diorama and figure classes relatively small, maybe the masterpieces are being prepared for next year. Another Supermarine Swift model—someone must be into Swifts. (Pictures of the models available here, here, here, and here.)

The public arrived. The judges were briefed and then proceeded to carefully study each model of their assigned classes. The day went on until it was time to close to the public. Judges still bent their backs over the tables but one by one dropped off their notes to the secretariat where the points were tallied through the evening. Joint dinner for those who had time for that and then home for a few hours' sleep, except for those who remained behind overnight to guard the premises against theft and vandalism.

In the morning judges still milled around, picking out the winners of all special prizes, more work for the secretariat and eventually the result lists were posted, the winning models received their little labels and the award ceremony started, all winners and honorable mentions receiving their plaques, or, in the case of the special prizes, various symbolic objects of much honour and encumbrance.

Soon after the exhibitors started packing down their exhibits, but the traders held out and hawked their wares until the bitter end. (I got in twenty seconds too late to get a Frog Avro Shackleton I'd had my eyes on, but so it goes.)

After the official closing time, work started in earnest. Before we could return all furniture to their original places we had to clean up the place. We pride ourselves on leaving the premises in better shape than we found them. (Which, alas, is not too difficult, the pupils don't seem to care very much for their school so the rooms are quite worn-down and grungy.) A little piece of plastic was found on the floor, hm, apparently the left main wheel cover from a 1/48 Mustang, better send mail to all who exhibited one of those to see whose it is.



Finally we were satisfied, hauled our stuff to the loaned van and left for home, leaving the drivers to dispose of the garbage and put the rest of the stuff in storage. On the tube, the planning started for next year.

---

Update: Official photo galleries here, here, and here.

Technology is beautiful

I got this Christmas card from my friends at the Center for Parallel Computers.

And then there were 28…

When I left elementary school, I lost contact with my class mates, mostly without any regrets.

I was invited to a class reunion several years ago, but I couldn't attend, as I would be talking at a conference abroad at the same time. Still, I called the organiser and sent my greetings and I also asked whether a certain girl would be attending. (She never was my girlfriend, I didn't even think of it as an option at the time.)
“Err, she…she is no more.” Oh. Without asking for the cause of death I still wasn't very surprised.

Yesterday, the morning paper carried the death notice of a then-friend of mine (who was her boyfriend), torn from wife and children at an early age.

The countdown has begun.

Oh, what a party!

With the celebration of my new bath room as pretext, I invited friends over yesterday. Some decided a safe distance would be Långban, Marstrand, Lisbon, or Cape Town, but rest assured, they will eventually be partied as well, resistance is futile.

For those that came, there was the usual miscellany of experimental food (Danish chicken sandwiches, Norwegian prince cake) and newly discovered fruit juices, teas and even a spot of Néscafe (I'm not a coffee drinker, OK?), yet I found stuff in the fridge this morning that I had forgotten to put on the table, but I hope nobody had to leave hungry. As usual, there was a certain coming and going so we didn't run out of chairs even at maximum occupancy when everybody decided to cram into the kitchen to paste various glops onto bread and munch away by the table. (My home-made shrimp margarine was a hit—it was gone long before I'd had a chance to taste it&hellip) A certain tension was discovered between those who wanted to discuss wireless networks and those who were more occupied with the upcoming Hobby Fair.

And I gots presents, from the scientifically excavated gun cartridges to colour matched towels.

As the day went on, only the most hardcore revellers remained, carefully going through my bookshelf and my stack of unbuilt models. (“What? I'm quite sure the Airfix Wellington was much larger when I was a kid!”)

My friends are bums.

In the end only the Only-begotten Son remained for some quality time and I tried to rack my brain for what I remembered of Maclaurin expansion—calculus is a bit hazy for me 25 years later… Eventually he returned to his studies and I could have a quick electronic exchange with Honeybuns, who hadn't been able to attend.

And then, to bed.

Sittin' on the dock of the bay

A friend, dearly beloved not only by me but many others, turned forty yesterday and the circle of friends was quietly convened for a surprise party in the archipelago. Like champagne-toting ninjas all converged on the island cottage where the unsuspecting target was spending the day and suddenly burst into the living room, waving glasses and handing over presents. Food and drink was prepared and consumed.

A group like this, composed almost exclusively of programmers and system administrators, has its own special way of talking, not only in its choice of subjects, where the mere mention of a software version number causes meaning nods, but in the way humour is applied, in rapid slap-downs of Stupidity, egregious examples of incompetence, shortsightedness, and inefficiency displayed for the others for comment and mocking, Technical Solutions to Social Problems proposed and elaborated. With few words, tips and suggestions were traded and arcane knowledge was passed on, keeping the networks running smoothly yet a while, holding chaos at bay. I silently marvelled at this concentration of intimidatingly skilled and bright people, invisibly doing their part to keep civilization intact.

A contingent left with the last boat to the mainland, the rest continued talking yet a while, but well after midnight withdrew to berths on their boats. A final group of hardy and close friends stayed up talking and singing. My last memories are of ”Balladen om briggen Blue Bird av Hull” being sung some time around three in the morning as I lay in my sleeping bag in the loft.

A few hours later it was time for me to groggily get up and catch the first morning boat. All alone in the fresh dawn I walked the short distance through the fir copses down to the jetty, raised the semaphor to flag down the boat and sat down on the jetty to wait, squinting in the near-horizontal sunlight.

I reflected that I was on the north side of the island where the glacial ice sheets once had come and scoured the rocks smooth, on the south side the rocks would be more broken up as the ice had left the island there. So you should be able to tell compass directions by looking at how smooth the rocks are, much in the same manner as locating ant hills or where the boughs are densest on the trees.

Then came the boat that took me to the bus that took me into town.

Stormy weather

I finally got to meet Martin R's delightful family. I considered for a moment taking it over, but relented.

As I rode the bus out to Martin's summer house in the archipelago, the sun was shining brightly but during the day clouds rolled in with increasing winds and as night fell a full storm developed. I lay awake a long while, watching the wind blowing wild waves across the bay and bending the trees on the isle.

In the morning the wind had abated somewhat but sheets and veils of rain still ran across the sea. As we packed and decamped I got rather wet but now at home with my fluffy bathrobe around me and sweet peppermint tea inside me I am feeling very pleased with having braved the elements.

Busy doing nothing

I have spent a relaxing weekend at a friend's summer house in the archipelago with no network connectivity and barely functioning electricity. For some reason there were almost no mosquitos about, those that I've had to fight with all earlier summers. On the other hand I saw some fascinating reptiles. On the path up from the cove I heard a rustle and turned in time to see an all-black snake, probably an adder, glide through the bilberry sprigs.

Today, going to the boat jetty we found a beautiful slow-worm lying very still across the path. Not even my camera flash perturbed it, it patiently waited for us to leave. I was very excited as I hadn't seen a slow-worm in nature since I was a small child. Imagine then my surprise when I got home and found another slow-worm crawling across the path just across from my house. This one had apparently been harassed by someone (maybe Ivar) as its tail had been lost.

Passing on

My setting up a home of my own unexpectedly brought me back in contact with my childhood best friend J, whom I hadn't seen in a long time. (There seems to be a strong instinct in single men to look after each other.)

J's father passed away some time ago, so he had inherited the family manor—big, decrepit and filled with the accretions of generations of packrats. As a child I had spent almost as much time there as in my own home.

With sorrow J had accepted he had to get rid of the house and its contents and now finally he had found buyers well-heeled enough to afford to (hopefully tastefully) renovate the building and the grounds (now just small strips around the building itself rather than the large and unkempt orchard my child-I used to run through to reach the house—the orchard in turn just a corner of the lands that the family had commanded in their heyday at the turn of the previous century).

This weekend was the last that J would have with the house and he invited me to share it with him. I biked over, pedalling on roads so familiar, yet in many places lined with houses that had been crammed in between the ones I remembered. The gravel path up to the house seemed not to have been filled in since I helped shovel gravel into the deepest potholes ages ago. Externally the manor looked just as I remembered it, the same horseshoe doorknocker on the door. I didn't need to use it, J had been expecting me and opened the door as soon as I had locked the bike. (It was imperative to lock the bike when I was 10 too, but I have to have a much sturdier lock these days.)

We went through the house room by room. There was enough of the original furniture still unremoved that it was easy to fill in the missing pieces—very little had been changed in the last 25 years. I peeked into the closet in J's old boys room and was immediately transported back to my tweens: the stacks of Svenska MAD, Märklin catalogues, audio cassettes, and Matchbox armoured cars were still there, overlaid with a slightly later sprinkling of 3.5" flopppies.

Stepping out of the serving passage I felt the smell of sun-warmed wood and remembered how we played ”Den försvunna diamanten” in summers so long ago.

In the end I had to leave, carrying some mementoes J kindly gave me, for a few hours having been back to other days; perhaps happier such.

For Bev

God Jul!

I'm so grateful to have you all as friends, it's greatful!

Sculptural, cultural

The exhibition Skulptur 2007 opened yesterday at Konstnärshuset and I was invited. Here are some pieces that caught my eye:




The exhibition is open to the public: go see!