The rotten remnants of a wooden sculpture of a fossil. In Gladstone park, just south of the ruins of Dollis Hill House.
The park has several wooden sculptures, all I think around 10 years old, all now returning to the earth.
The dinosaurs of Crystal Palace have stood for more than a century. Since before Gladstone’s first term.
Valencia fell to the Nationalists in the last days of the war. Advancing from the north and west, the various armies of the fascists pushed through a beaten Republican force. Passing through the ancient city of Saguntum on the 29th of March, on the 30th troops entered Valencia. The British navy stood back as the Nationalists rounded up somewhere between 10 000 and 30 000 soldiers and civilians from the Alicante ports. By the end of the next day the war was over, and the decades of dictatorship had begun.
In 2006 Antony Beevor updated his estimates of the calamity of the time : 38 000 killed by the Red terror, 200 000 in Franco’s response. Estimates for the province of Valencia were around 3000 on each side.
You would learn none of this by visiting Valencia today – there are no memorials to the fallen, no understated monuments to a divisive conflict. But that’s not to say that Valencia isn’t a city at easy with death, that the Valencians don’t understand the inevitable. (Beyond the traditional Municipal Bulldeathring.)
Ghosting its way through the centre of the city is what used to be the river Turia. After a particularly unpleasant flood in the 50s it was exterminated. Banished from the city. It lives now only in the memories of the populace (also in some fields about 10 km south of town). It takes a special kind of “popular will” to remove the river from the middle of a city. A different kind of decision making process to replace it with giant corpses.
But this is what the good Burgueses of Valencia chose to do.
For example, this.
The Valencians claim it is a representation of a Lilli-prisoned Gulliver. A genuinely fascinating assertion given the (in) action of the British navy half a century earlier. It is, alas, unmistakeably, a dead swordsman. Possibly executed. Resolutely ex.
An oversize corpse for children to play inside.
Further down the ex-river is a more contemporary satire. A home-grown version. The Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias was to be Valencia’s beating cultural heart. Oddly, a heart is one of the few things the Cuidad doesn’t manage to contain an architectural representation of. They did manage an extracted eye. Two, in fact : one open, one closed. There are also some ribs and an assortment of what might be blood cells.
It is up to the reader to decide which body part this best describes.
The science museum is designed to look like a rotting whale carcass.
One thing they all are – apart from a grotesque representation of a society consuming itself – is empty. A ghost town, hidden inside a skeleton at the bottom of a dead river. The Turia has been dry since the 60s, but the city of arts and sciences is a product of the last decade. The more optimistic half of the last decade.
The Victorians (and also Albert Speer) were inclined to judge past civilisations on the quality of the ruins that they left. Think pyramids, think Haverhill. As such, both the Victorians and the Nazis wanted their buildings to not only look good for the living, but also for the not-yet-living. Famously John Soane went as far as to commission an image of his new Bank of England a millennium hence.
What to make of a city that built its ruins only ten years ago ?
So ends Margaret Thatcher’s one and only published scientific paper. Many people have contributed less to science. But not many of those became Fellows of the Royal Society.
‘The saponification of α-monostearin in a monolayer’ was published in 1951 in the Journal of the Science of Food and Agriculture (not open access…) and describes the results of a series of some somewhat fiddly-sounding temperature- and pressure-dependence studies of the saponification of a glyceride.
Paul Nurse railed a couple of years ago against the modern style of paper writing, preferring the simpler times and terms of his youth. This paper reads as though it should have an list of apparatus at the beginning. Instead it opens with a cursory overview of the context of the experiments – the monostearins studied have found use as emulsifying agents, and their properties in this context are not well understood. The young Margaret Roberts was seemingly tasked with elucidating these for J. Lyons, the food manufacturer. A contemporary in the company recalled that Roberts had the job of “improving the over-run [air content] of ice cream”, which ties in well with the emulsifier work she published (in ice cream, emulsifiers can act as both stabilisers and aerating agents). It ends as all good science should : “The reason why equation (3) is not obeyed at higher temperatures is obscure. … no satisfactory explanation was found and it is felt that there are insufficient data to warrant a discussion of this problem.”
So, no, as everyone knows, she didn’t invent Mr Whippy. Not least because soft-scoop ice cream was already well-established in the US by this time, also because it seems unlikely that any one person could invent such a thing. But it is likely that she worked in the ice cream group and undertook research relevant to the product. And so went Thatcher the Chemist.
But what of the co-author, Hans Helmut Gunter Jellinek ? Much more interesting, if less well documented.
Hans Jellinek’s career began in England, possibly at Lyons itself, and at some point over the new twenty years he and his wife moved to the USA where he took up a post at Clarkson College of Technology in upstate New York. While holding down a job at what is now Clarkson University, he went to Japan and also seems have gained some local notoriety, and an excellent local-paper headline in the Schenectady Gazette.
He published over 160 articles and books over a 40-year career that ranged from the kind of food research he did at Lyons, to studies of the degradation of plastics, to the interfacial properties of ice and snow.
He retired a professor in 1982, seemingly so that he could spend more time with his work. At this point he received a lovely note from his co-author of 1951. Maybe it is just formality, properness, but I do wonder if, in all the time from joining him as a junior colleague to writing to him as a Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher had ever called him by his first name.
The last British-based member of the International Brigades died a
couple of days before Christmas.
A big class of jolly Spanish children just sprinted past this on their way to the big wheel.
During the Thirty Years’ War, Wallenstein laid siege to Stralsund for three months. Before relief came (at a price) from Gustav of Sweden, the town’s walls were defended by a load of battle-hardened Scottish highlanders.
I don’t think there is anything to mark this in the town, but they have replaced a section of the Knieperwall with a large glass tank containing the skeleton of a toothed whale.
I love the Thirty Years’ War. Among the dozens and dozens of intertwined factors and events that resulted in Stralsund under siege, the most immediate one was that it didn’t sign up to the neutrally-named “Capitulation of Franzburg” treaty.