Ode to a pot of tea

I would like to love tea. Like many people of English and Irish heritage (I have both), I was brought up drinking it as the main source of hydration throughout the day. We had tea in the morning before school, tea when we got home, and tea with dinner.

We didn’t often drink coffee, and when we did it was only instant coffee. Cafes were rare establishments in Australia the seventies – viewed with suspicion, as somehow foreign and disreputable. If you wanted a drink you went to the pub for a beer, the corner shop for a can of fizzy drink, or the milk bar for a milkshake. We only had one cafe in Canberra, and the owner had an ongoing fight with the city authorities to be able to put tables outdoors, which the council thought looked untidy.

Like most in my cohort, I developed a taste for real coffee, made by a barista, once cafes became widespread and I became affluent enough not to regard laying out a few dollars for a cup of coffee as a sinful act of outrageous extravagance.

I have always continued to drink tea, but mostly just because I feared becoming dependent on caffeine as I had heard people who drink lots of coffee do. I have sometimes had caffeine withdrawal headaches on the weekend, just because my daily supply of one or two coffees got interrupted by being at home instead of in the city. That was enough for me to develop a rule of never more than one caffeinated coffee per day, and regular days with none.

I have to be honest and admit that I like the taste of coffee better than that of tea. I find something comforting in its distinctive, strong taste – I can’t say what. Tea has very little taste, compared to coffee.

But all those years I kept drinking tea, You can’t stay hydrated on five coffees in seven days. I feel ashamed to admit that for most of that time I used tea bags. Ugh, what was I thinking? The best part of tea drinking is the ritual of filling the teapot, waiting for it to brow, and then pouring it elegantly into fine porcelain cups. No wonder the Japanese made a serious, world-renowned ceremony out of the whole thing. For the past few years I’ve kept a small, two-cup teapot in the kitchen at work and made my tea in that, from leaves of course, not bags.

I just wish I liked the taste of tea more. It’s not that I dislike it. Rather, I often feel I can’t detect a taste at all. Currently I blame two phenomena equally for that:

  • firstly, I think I make it too weak.
  • Secondly, I think it’s not supposed to taste strong. I like to think of it as a subtle drink, for the discerning, mild spirits that consider the brash, punch-you-in-the-face taste of coffee too forward.

To address this, I am trying to make my tea stronger (but it’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime) and trying to put more effort into seeking out its subtle taste, rather than expecting it to come and find me (does that mean coffee is for lazy people?).

I have interrogated myself over why I so much want to like tea. Here are my answers.

  1. I read Ian Fleming’s Bond novel Goldfinger in my late teens, and the only line I remember from that tawdry potboiler is Bond saying “I don’t drink Tea. Tea is mud”, then going on to blame the decline of the British Empire on tea drinking, and ending with a classic renaissance man quip to a female fellow agent “be a good girl and go make me a coffee!”. At eighteen I was not exactly a social justice warrior but that statement by Fleming (rightly or wrongly, I saw Bond as a transparent mouthpiece for Fleming’s own view) ticked so many boxes for me – that tea drinking is for lily-livered feminist sympathisers who don’t support colonialism – that from that moment forward I’ve only been able to view coffee as a guilty pleasure and tea as the drink that all right-thinking people should favour.
  2. Tea originated in Asia, whereas coffee originated in the Americas. We all have our geographical and ethnic biases and mine are for Asia over America. I try to be friendly to Americans whenever I meet them, but I fear that I may have unconscious microaggressions that give me away. I think it might be because at heart I am an incurable conservative that thinks it too early to decide whether establishing relations with the New World was a good idea. Perhaps the indigenous inhabitants of the Americas would think likewise. And I expect the indigenous inhabitants of where I live, and whose country I occupy, would harbour similar thoughts.
  3. Possibly in complete contradiction to that, I am fascinated by the Boston Tea Party. It seems so deliciously arcane that the American revolution started over empire-imposed taxes on tea. I like to imagine myself sitting in a fashionable Bostonian parlour drinking tea with Paul Revere, John Adams and their families, out of delicate china cups. I heard recently that the Sons of Liberty tipped a phenomenal amount of tea into Boston harbour – dozens of tons. I hope it wasn’t as bad an environmental catastrophe as that sounds like. The poor fish!

I used to think tea came from India as much as from China, but have since learned that tea cultivation only started in India in the nineteenth century at the instigation of the British, who feared they might lose their supply from China if they couldn’t continue to force them to provide it at the barrel of a gunboat. Interesting that the empire of which Fleming was so fond, when at its most powerful, exerted that power to ensure the supply of tea. But I suppose he thought that’s where it started to go wrong.

I shall now go and have another cup of tea, trying hard to savour its so delicate, shy taste, while regretting the empire and thinking thoughts of apology to the Indians, Chinese and native Americans.

Andrew Kirk

Bondi Junction, New Year’s Day 2024


Another meeting diversion with pencil and paper

Do you remember learning to write at school? We called it Running Writing, although the official name was Cursive. That distinguished it from what we called Printing, in which you write each letter separately, with no joins between them.

Up until some grade – I think about grade 3 – they made us print. Then we started to have sessions of Running Writing practice. We felt SO grown-up!

Our teacher used to write sentences on the board with chalk, for us to copy into our exercise books – I don’t remember whether with pens (ball-point, aka biros) or pencils. We consider using a pen as another sign of maturity. Strangely, I now prefer using a pencil for most things.

She was very good at making up sentences. She was the queen of alliteration. She would write up on the black board a sentence with as many words as possible all starting with the same letter. A different letter every day. We might start the sequence with.

An ancient alligator accosted an angry angel and ate any available almonds.

Z would be tricky.

We would then have to all copy the sentence down in our exercise books. She would inspect our writing, giving praise where appropriate, and give us tips on how to do it better.

Once, while practising, I wrote a capital W like this:

with the peak of the middle bit being well below the beginning and end points.

A boy in my class went “um ah!” at me. That’s what people said in those days, to facetiously point out that you had done something forbidden. He told me “You’re not allowed to write capital W’s like that until fourth grade!”. Little boys are very invested in what one is not allowed to do. From then I yearned for the attainment of the unimaginable maturity of a fourth-grader, and the immense privilege that would come with it, of being granted licence to write such W’s.

As it happens, little boys also have short memories, so by the time I reached fourth grade, I’d forgotten about it (funny that I should remember it now, fifty years later), so I missed the disappointment of nobody telling me that I was now allowed to do that.

I’m old enough that, although I did many Computer Science units at uni, almost everything I ever handed in during my long period of education: primary, secondary, tertiary, professional, was hand-written.

For my professional qualification I had to sit several exams, each consisting of two three-hour papers in a day. To prepare I practised writing fast, for a long time, so my hand would have the stamina to write the exams without cramping.

These days, I think the only people that ever submit hand-written products are calligraphy students.

I’ve never done calligraphy, but I’ve been struck in recent years by the unexpected beauty of hand-writing. Perhaps because it is so much rarer now, whereas we used to see it everywhere. The wonderful rounded curves, so individual, every “g” looking similar but slightly different to every other one. The end of each line of ink or graphite, thinning and fading out as the pen or pencil gradually leaves the page.

This leads me to one of my new discoveries of things to do in meetings: write! It doesn’t matter what. Write anything, but just write. With a pencil or pen, not a keyboard. And inspect your work after each word or each sentence. To admire the unconsciously delivered beauty and wonder of it.

You can try writing in different styles. Maybe first try to write as close to a perfect Copperplate as you can manage. Then write something really fast, with each letter being only the slightest bump in the supersonic horizontal line. Vary the angle of slope of your letters. I can’t remember what angle they taught us, but I do remember we sometimes used special paper that had sloping almost-vertical lines, as well as the horizontal lines, to guide us in imparting the right slope to our letters.

Maybe try writing with a backwards slope – upwards to the left rather than the right. To me that looks like I’m trying to slow it down, leaning against the left-to-right flow of the text.

I’ve also tried writing with my non-dominant hand. I don’t think I could call the result beautiful, but it was interesting.

Sometimes I combine this newfound passion with another passion – more long-held – a fascination with the weird-sounding words that populate our language. Words like Bollard, Quantify or Jumble.

Every now and again I write down what somebody just said, to give me plausible deniability against the accusation that I’m not paying attention. Usually I am paying attention. It’s just that most meetings proceed so slowly, and people typically take so many words to make a simple point, that one has plenty of brain space to do both.

Actually, I think it may be wiser to jot down just a bullet point or couple of words about what they just said. If you write out one of their sentences verbatim it may look like you’re taking the mickey.

I’ll end by attaching a sheet of writing I did just recently, just for the fun of it. You can tell it’s not genuine – ie not produced in a real meeting – as it doesn’t have any doodles on it. My meeting notes tend to feature a mixture of doodles and unconnected words.

Andrew Kirk

Bondi Junction, July 2023


I have nothing to say

Nine years ago (2014/05/25) I wrote about my writers’ block – how I started essays, each in its own flourish of enthusiasm, but I just didn’t finish any, getting stuck partway through.

I don’t have that problem now. I no longer have the flourishes of enthusiasm. Rather, I wonder whether I could have anything at all to say that might benefit others. I have replaced a reluctance to finish by a reluctance to start.

I don’t mean I feel useless – I have plenty of things I could tell people about how to tactically navigate their life better. I can fix people’s computers, optimise their finances, DIY their houses, solve their maths problems and help them express important emails better.

But I feel I have nothing left to say about the big things – about the strategic aspects of life.

Why is that?

Partly I suppose because I have already shared so many opinions on this site that I can think of none that remain unshared.

On top of that comes a realisation that nothing I say is new. So many people have lived on Earth, each having their own experiences and realisations, that the chance that I’ve had an idea nobody else has seems vanishingly low. That’s not a complete knockout, of course. Most things people write reflect things others have written before them. But they reach new people, that didn’t see any of the earlier versions. I think of the wandering minstrels and bards of the middle ages, who would tell stories and sing songs to onlookers. Rarely were any of them new, but they may have been new to some or all of the listeners at any particular gathering. And anyway, sometimes we like hearing songs and stories we’ve heard before “Daddy, please tell us the one about the robot bilby and the anti-gravity hemp plant!”

I seem to have given up on reading philosophy. So many of the ‘great questions’ just appear to me as ‘confusions of grammar’, as Bertrand Russell once put it – not that that stopped him writing long tracts about how “Edinburgh is north of London, whether or not anybody knows it” (which I used to fervently believe, but now consider a meaningless statement).

The question of whether we have ‘free will’, on analysis, turns out to consist entirely of a rejection of the common-sense definition of free will, together with an inability to clearly articulate its replacement.

Ditto for the question of whether ‘there is an external world’ (‘external’ to our thoughts).

Ditto for questions of the ‘existence’ of ‘absolute truth’ or ‘absolute moral values’.

Nevertheless I have found philosophy enormously useful, in the following ways:

  1. dissolving the above types of ‘problems’, so one can stop worrying about and wasting time over them;
  2. debunking the claims of dogmatists, be they political, religious or moral preachers;
  3. learning to analyse an argument and find its hidden assumptions, non sequiteurs and other logical fallacies;
  4. helping me make moral decisions, in the absence of any belief in ‘absolute morals’, and helping to live with the consequences of those decisions;
  5. guiding me in learning to cope with life, with all its emotional slings and arrows. Indeed much of the best philosophy serves as a superior sort of self-help. I’d much rather follow Epicurus, the Buddha or the Stoics than Anthony Robbins.

But I’ve already babbled out my opinions on those points in previous essays. So I won’t reprise them here.

Perhaps I can try to distil my overly large collection of opinions into a small number of principles. Let’s see, what should I include? Each of the following is based on my learning from my own mistakes – aiming not to do what I’ve done for most of my life, and in many case still do too much:

  1. Don’t expect to ever attain perfection in life. For every thing I fix, another one will break before long. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t fix stuff. I just try not to delude myself that once I get everything fixed, everything will be just dandy for ever and I can finally rest with my feet up in perfect happiness. I think I spent most of my twenties and thirties harbouring that delusion – working towards a non-existent Utopia.
  2. Learn to enjoy fixing stuff. A wise person once said something like “the meaning of life is having something to do”. I think life can have many meanings, and I’d add others, but that’s a good one. A man needs a project. And so does a woman. And so does anybody that isn’t either of those.
  3. Be open-minded. We can’t be certain of anything, so we might as well just believe what makes sense to us personally. So there’s no point in dismissing the beliefs of others, as long as they don’t hurt anybody.
  4. Try to blame other people as little as possible. Blaming often treats the blamee unfairly, and only makes the blamer unhappy. I try to treat somebody acting meanly to me or to someone I love as a relational problem to solve, not an evil to destroy.
  5. The more I think about others and less about myself, the happier I’ll feel.
  6. As regards moral decisions, just try to be kind. If I keep that in mind, I can’t go too far wrong, and it’s a lot easier than desperately trying to conform to some unknowable set of metaphysical “moral rules”. I’ll also suffer much less guilt.
  7. The word “optimist” has two very different senses. The first means expecting that good things will happen. The second means putting the best possible mental spin on what has happened. I try to be the second type of optimist but not the first. Expecting the worst helps me prepare defences and thus makes it less likely to happen.
  8. Try not to get really worked up about stuff. It’s our nature to do that, but try anyway. The more I succeed, the happier I’ll be.
  9. Learn to enjoy stories again, like I did when I was a little child. And never refer to something as a ‘story’, ‘myth’ or ‘legend’ as if that’s a reason to dismiss it. I believe our lives are shrouded in and shaped by stories that we make up for ourselves and each other, and would fall apart without them.

Lastly, one shouldn’t beat oneself up for failing to live up to principles such as the above. Knowing wise stuff is the easy part. Successfully implementing it is the hard bit.

I’m a rotten implementer, but I’m slowly getting better. But see principle 1.

Gosh, and I thought I’d only have three. What a lot of gabbling. That list grew like Monty Python’s list of the weapons of the Spanish Inquisition. There’s always one more.

Forget all that, work out your own damn principles!

I could have a different set by next year – hopefully less numerous. Maybe that’ll give me something new to write about.

Andrew Kirk

Bondi Junction, March 2023


Number 3 in a series of adult amusements – drawing soccer balls

It’s been five years since my last one in this series. Time for another. This is another doodling opportunity. Do you find that your doodles start to all look the same? Are you getting a bit bored with them? Well this should keep you going through at least another week or two’s worth of dull work meetings.

It’s based on your classic soccer ball. I won’t insert a picture of an actual soccer ball, for reasons that will become apparent later in this essay. The classic soccer ball design is a patchwork of interleaved hexagons and pentagons. The patches for one of those two shapes (I don’t recall which) are all black, and only a few of them occur on the ball, with no two ever touching one another – not even just at a single vertex (corner). Let’s call them “isolated patches”. The patches of the other shape are all white, and surround each of the black patches. Let’s call the white patches “common patches” because they outnumber the isolated patches.

It turns out that, if we choose carefully, we can perfectly tile the surface of a sphere – like a soccer ball – using such a combination, such that all the isolated patches are the same shape and size as each other and so are all the common patches. Also, every pentagon and hexagon is “regular”, which means each of its edges is the same length and each of its corners has the same angle.

Here are a blue-outlined regular hexagon and a red-outlined regular pentagon. Note how I’ve avoided black and white in order to preserve the uncertainty about which type of patch is black/isolated on an actual white and black ball!

Our doodles will be attempts to draw, on a flat sheet of paper, as much of a soccer ball pattern as we can, starting with the black – ie less common – patch.

One way to try is to make the pentagon the isolated patch, and to then surround it by a ring of five hexagon patches, like Figure P1:

I’ve coloured the isolated patch red here, to give greater contrast, and I’ll maintain that practice in all the drawings below, whether the isolated patch is pentagon or hexagon.

The other way to start is to make the hexagon the isolated patch and surround it by six pentagons, like figure H1.

The challenge, then, is to continue drawing more patches, gradually moving outwards from our central starting patch, and obeying the rules, which are:

  1. No two isolated patches can touch, not even on a corner;
  2. Include only as many common patches as you need to keep the isolated patches apart; and
  3. We want the entire pattern to have the highest degree of rotational symmetry that we can achieve.

The “degree of rotational symmetry” means the number of different angles you can rotate it through and still have exactly the same pattern. For example, for a pattern consisting of just a single regular pentagon that degree is five, because rotating it by one, two, three, four or five fifths of a full turn leaves the shape unchanged. A degree of one means essentially no symmetry at all, as any rotation will change the pattern.

When the isolated shape is a pentagon, the rotational symmetry must either have degree five (same as the pentagon) or one (no symmetry). So I’d say that unless our pattern has degree five, we’ve failed. When the isolated shape is a hexagon, the rotational symmetry can have degree six, three, two or one. I think six is probably impossible and two is unlikely. Three would be good.

We don’t require all patches of the same type (hexagon or pentagon) to appear to be the same shape in our drawing, or even to be regular. On the actual ball we want that to happen, but things get distorted when you transfer patterns from a sphere to a flat surface, which is why Antarctica’s enormity gets exaggerated and aeroplane routes appear to not go straight when shown on a paper map. You’ll see this distortion happening in the patterns we draw below.

Looking at Figure P1, what do you think should be the next step? The outer ring is all hexagons, so we need to put in some pentagons, but with hexagons in between them so they don’t touch. It looks like we have a choice. We could either insert five pentagons pointing outwards with bases against the “flat bits” – see figure P1a – or we could insert five pentagons pointing inwards, nestled into each of the five “bays” in the coastline of the shape P1 – see figure P1b.

In each case we need to put a hexagon between each of the outer pentagons. I’ll leave that to you.

Note how the shapes further from the centre are more irregular. Just like how the standard Mercator map projection is most accurate near the equator ande gets increasingly distorted near the poles, this representation of a curved patchwork on a flat page gets more distorted as we move away from our starting patch. That makes it harder to work out how to draw outer rings of shapes, as they will look very different from what they’d look like on the ball. Since we can’t use similarity to an actual ball to help us, we use the above two rules as a guide. Figures P1a and P1b both obey those rules, having no two pentagons touching, and a rotational symmetry of degree five – ignoring the irregularities caused solely by my inaccurate drawing.

You might wonder – how do we finish this off? That is, how do we know when our pattern is big enough to cover the soccer ball? Well that depends on how much time we have to spend on the doodle. The quick way is to identify when we have achieved a pattern that can match up with an identical copy of itself so that when we sew them together along the edges – with the ball inside – they will cover the ball with no gaps and the pattern will follow the rules. The long way is to keep going, drawing more and more rings of patches (that get more and more irregular!) until we get to a pattern where the outside of the pattern has the same number of edges as the central patch – which will be five or six and there are no isolated patches in the outer ring. Then – imagining the pattern is drawn on a stretchy rubber sheet – we can pull it over a ball and pull it tight so that the outer perimeter of the sheet forms a shape the same as the original central patch – but at the antipodal point of the sphere. We can then sew another patch of that shape to the edges of the rubber sheet, to complete the ball’s patchwork cover.

Let’s think about the quick way first. How can we identify when it can match a copy of itself?

After reflecting on this I realised that, around any valid pattern of isolated and common shapes we can make a boundary ring of common shapes. If we couldn’t then as we continued the pattern we’d end up with at least two isolated patches touching somewhere, thus breaking the rules. The boundary ring may look zig-zaggy rather than straight, but it will continuously encircle all the isolated shapes in the pattern. In figures P1 and H1 we can easily see the boundary ring.

Let’s put rings around the patterns in P1a and P1b. Here we go:

I have put green spots in the pentagon patches making the boundary ring.

Now we could sew each of these this together with an identical patch to make complete, ball-covering sheets. But that would break rule 2. We’d have too many common patches, as we’d have two complete rings of them next to one another, which is more than we need to separate the isolated patches.

So instead, let’s do the following trick. Concentrate now, this will stretch your powers of spatial imagination!

First remove every second patch in the boundary ring, creating a cog-wheel shape. Then make a copy of that, and flip the copy upside down. By that, I don’t mean rotate it by 180 degrees on the page. I mean pick up the imaginary rubber sheet on which we’ve drawn the pattern, turn it over and lay it down again. Figure P3a shows the original next to the flipped sheet.

Now, temporarily imagining the drawing surface as being cardboard, we fold the patches marked with green spots up (away from the screen) in the original and down (towards the screen) in the flipped copy.

We then place the the flipped copy on top of the original and sew the two together, sewing together the edges with the same numbers in both picture, ie sew 1 to 1, 2 to 2, etc. Continune numbering around the perimeter of each of the two sheets and continue sewing together edges with matching numbers until complete.

That gives a shape like that of a short cylinder or disc, with the green-spot patches making the sides. By looking at the numbers above, you can see that we never have to sew two red edges together, which would make two pentagons (isolated shapes) touch and hence break rule 1.

Now all we need do is stretch the disc into a sphere, and we have a soccer ball! It obeys rules 1 and 2 and a quick look confirms that it has rotational symmetry of degree five – the maximum possible – so it also satisfies rule 3.

Similarly, we can make a complete ball from P2b by removing every second patch in the boundary ring. The ring forms a zigzag, so we can either remove all the outermost spotted patches or all the innermost ones. Either way we can make it work, although we need to distort the shapes more than for P2a in order to make the edges align for sewing. If we remove the innermost spotted patches, we get long two-patch tabs that we need to fold up or down on the two copies before sewing. If we remove outermost patches, we only have to fold up half of each outer common patch, to get things aligned for sewing.

When completing P2b we don’t need to flip over the copy before sewing. Can you think why that is?

Although the above can take us all the way to a completed soccer ball, we can have fun in taking the long approach, trying to draw the whole thing – except the final patch – on a flat sheet of paper. That gets increasingly difficult as we go further out, because the shapes get so distorted it is hard to relate it back to what it would look like on the ball.

It would spoil the fun of trying to draw them, to show diagrams here. But for those that can’t wait to know, follow these links to see sketches of completions of the patterns started as P1a and P1b2 above:

P3a – Pentagon as isolated shape, outer pentagons pointing outwards

P3b – Pentagon as isolated shape, outer pentagons pointing inwards

I’m not sure which one of those actual soccer balls use, as they both look feasible. Currently I’d guess P3a, but I’m still staying away from soccer balls, to preserve the suspense.

In those pictures, a dashed line shows the boundary between the two halves (hemispheres) of the surface. Isolated shapes have red, bold outlines on the near (starting) hemisphere and yellow, bold outlines on the far side.

What about H1, where we make the hexagon the isolated shape. Here is my attempt to complete an entire ball with that plan:

H2 – Hexagon as isolated shape

You can see from that, that shapes rapidly get really badly distorted. We can complete the ball, but the two hemispheres will be very different, some patches will be much bigger than others, and some may even be concave! Nevertheless it’s a nice challenge trying to draw it freehand.

That’s enough for now. Happy drawing!

Andrew Kirk

Bondi Junction, January 2023

PS Turns out the soccer ball shape is a “truncated icosahedron”, which means you start with an icosahedron, then slice off (‘truncate’) each of its vertices. An icosahedron is a roughly spherical 3D shape with twenty flat, triangular faces. Since five triangular faces meet at each vertex, slicing a vertex off gives you a new pentagonal face, and doing that at all twelve vertices turns the existing triangular faces into hexagons. So another way to draw the ball’s pattern would be to draw as much as you can of an icosahedron: a pattern of triangles where five meet at each vertex. Then colour in a pentagonal shape at each vertex, as per the following sequence:

PPS I wonder if there are any other patterns we could use to tile a soccer ball with two different shapes. This one has five and six-sided shapes. I tried with three and four and made a complete mess of it – probably my bad drawing. Four and five looked more promising, but the shapes soon started getting quite irregular. I enjoyed trying though. One pattern we know must be possible is the twin of the truncated icosahedron, which is a truncated dodecahedron, where we slice off each vertex of a dodecahedron. A dodecahedron is a roughly spherical 3D shape with twelve flat pentagonal faces. Since three pentagons meet at each vertex, slicing a vertex off gives a new triangular face, and doing that at all twenty vertices turns the pentagons into ten-sided faces (decagons). So that gives a tiling of three- and ten-sided shapes.


Fear of infinity

As a child I had a recurring waking nightmare. It would happen like this. I would be lying in bed waiting for sleep, almost there, half-conscious, and I would gradually become aware of the gentle ticking of the alarm clock over on my bookcase. Something about its regularity, its inevitability, inexorability – its persistence, frightened me. It seemed as though with each tick it gradually became somehow bigger. Not louder, but bigger. It seemed destined to just go on getting bigger and bigger, and more insistent, for ever. I felt it would eventually get so big that it would overpower and engulf me and everybody else, leaving nothing in the universe except the gentle, horrifying, inexorable ticking. The longer I listened to it in that frame of mind, the more terrified I became, until I cried out in horror and one of my parents had to come into my room to see what was wrong. My father got rather cross at my inability to explain what had frightened me. All I could do was babble incoherently about the clock’s ticking getting too big.

The nightmare stopped visiting me after a while, maybe around the age of ten, I’m not sure.

Recently I read that some people have a fear of infinity. Could that be what I had?

If you’re brought up in one of the vengeful religions, and get taught about the eternity of punishment awaiting those that don’t satisfy the commandments of the Supreme Authority, a fear of infinity – of which eternity is the temporal manifestation – makes perfect sense. In fact I probably had a dual fear of infinity, because I can remember also thinking that, however great the Good Place might be, if admitted there I would inevitably get bored of it after a few thousand years and that boredom would gradually increase to the point of becoming as excruciatingly painful as if I’d ended up in the Bad Place.

When I grew up, I studied pure mathematics, and so ended up having to investigate all different sorts of infinities from many different angles. Familiarity didn’t quite breed contempt, but it certainly lessened the fear. And doing calculations with infinities using the methods discovered by the great German mathematician Georg Cantor is tremendous fun.

There are other reasons to fear infinity apart from the priestly threat of eternal boredom or eternal torture. One that troubles me sometimes is that the laws of probability seem to dictate that if the universe is, as many cosmologists suppose, infinite, then everything that can happen, must happen somewhere in the universe. And further, anything that happens in one place will actually happen at infinitely many places, at varying times. That seems fine for pleasant things, but what about the unpleasant? Does it suggest that somewhere in the infinite universe resides a planet where all the most evil, horrible, cruel, barbaric things happen, where most people suffer in excruciating fashion from rough birth to merciful death?

I try not to think of such things. Or I remind myself that it depends on the those crucial words “everything that can happen”. Even infinity can’t make something impossible happen. Tossing a coin an infinite number of times can give any pattern of heads and tails that you can imagine but none of the tosses can ever generate a belly button, or an adverb. So perhaps that grotesque planet of my imagination – that Mordor of the cosmos – could not happen in practice, because of some fundamental principle of cosmic balance that we cannot see clearly, that makes it impossible.

I note that that, while most fears of infinity seem to be about eternity – an infinity of time – my barbarous planet fear relates to an infinity of space. The second law of thermodynamics saves us from an infinity of time in this universe at least, since it tells us that (probably) heat death will bring the universe ultimately to a frozen, dispersed state in which nothing ever happens and time effectively stops. That ‘probably’ is a whole rabbit hole we could dive into but that really deserves a separate essay of its own, so I won’t dive in right now.

There are also infinities of number, rather than of space or time. Many people these days contemplate multiverse theories. If you can have half a dozen or twenty universes in a multiverse, then why not an infinite number? That then raises again the fear of a Most Barbarous Universe, which makes me reach for the comfort of my hypothesised Principle of Cosmic Balance to dismiss it from consideration.

Do you remember arguments as a child about who was best, arguments that might end with arguments about whether there is such a number as ‘infinity plus one’? They could run as follows:

“I am so much better than you at <insert here some competitive activity – say riding a bike fast down a steep hill>”

“No you’re not.”

“I am so. I’m a hundred times better than you”

“Well I’m a thosand times better than you”

“No you’re not. I’m a million times better than you”

“Ha! I’m a billion times better tham you”

“No way. I’m a squillion times better than you”

[Pause for side debate about whether there’s such a number as a squillion, then …]

“Well anyway I”m a googol times better than you”

“I’m a googol and one times better than you”

“So what, I’m infinity times better than you”

[Pause again for debate about whether infinity is bigger than a googol. It is. Then …]

“You can’t be infinity times better than anything”

“Oh yes you can”

“Well in that case I’m infinity and one times better than you”

“That’s stupid. There’s no number bigger than infinity. There’s no such thing as infinity plus one”

“Yes there is”

“No there isn’t”

[repeat last two lines to fade out, like in Hey Jude]

Well dear reader, as I discovered only a few years ago when I read about ordinals, there actually is such a thing as infinity plus one, if by infinity we mean the first infinite ordinal ɷ, or indeed any later infinite ordinal. Infinite ordinals are splendidly exciting, and can be sort of summarised by the lovely picture at the top of this essay with its infinite spiral and looking a bit like an alarm clock.

If only I had known of them back when I was eight and took such arguments so very seriously.

Andrew Kirk

Bondi Junction, October 2022