After a couple of days of leave, Ingrid was expected back at the Muskö naval base tonight. (That’s where the off-duty half of their unit is staying while the other half is guarding the royal palace.) Getting there by train and bus would take two hours, so I drove her there. Which also gave us a bonus hour of chatting and being together.

Muskö is an island. I presumed that getting there would involve bridges, and there were a few short ones, but the final approach was through a very long tunnel. Just short of 3 km, it’s the second longest road tunnel in the Stockholm region. When it was finished back in 1964, it was Sweden’s longest.

Why am I even talking about the tunnel? Because driving in it was a very strange experience. The tunnel goes in big sweeping curves, so you can’t see very far, and it goes quite deep. The car kind of just started running away from me, and I didn’t understand why, because there was no visual indication – just featureless concrete-covered walls. It took me a moment to deduce that the road was going downhill.

A boring day of working at home, with life in general feeling pretty dull, but at least the day gave me a rainbow.

Happy Birthday to Adrian who is now sixteen. Old enough to get a proper job, if he wants to, and for driving lessons.

I don’t have much practise with fancy cakes, but this one (with a mud cake bottom and a layer of raspberry mousse on top of that) came out better than I had maybe expected. The main challenge was timing: the bottom needed to be made in advance so I finished it yesterday at midnight, and the mousse wanted to spend two hours in the freezer. I’m pleased that it all worked out.

Parent information evening at Adrian’s new school, Norra Real. A school with a long history and pride in its heritage, and a traditional school building from a time when things were built to last. Polished stone floors, sturdy but elegant wooden benches, glass cabinets with trophies and diplomas etc.

The info meeting itself took place in the school’s great hall, with vaulted ceilings, murals, and a full-on pipe organ.

Finally I can use up all the soil that has been sitting around since last summer. I thought it might be enough (and maybe more) than I’d need, but with the amount of rocks I’ve removed from here, there was a lot of space to fill up. The bag is all empty, but the soil level is lower than it was before I started removing the sod. Looks like I’ll be needing to buy more.

I’m picking up bugg, a Swedish social dance, for the third time in my life. The first was during my university days and ended when I moved to London; the second was in 2009 and ended with my 2nd pregnancy. With two small children I didn’t manage to keep up much of any hobby, especially not one that required getting out of the house regularly at set times.

I’m not a beginner, but I’m nevertheless starting over with a beginner’s course. Bugg has changed quite a lot over twenty-five years. The current fashion is for much smaller steps and subtler movements. There’s none of the back-and-forth of the late 1990s, and none of the twisting of the late 2000s. I may know the moves and remember the signals for them, but I have to unlearn the old-style way of moving the body through them.

The course takes place at the community centre in Alvik. The dance hall on the top floor has a huge mural, which I first guessed to be from around 1920, since it depicts the construction of Alvik and shows the work being done in a very manual way still. Wikipedia informs me that the painting is from 1940, although the scene is from 1920.

Ingrid wrangled a half-hour of free time from her commanding officers, so that I (and some others) could photograph her. In her shiny dress uniform and her own snazzy beret.

Talking and facial expression were allowed today, but she was under strict instructions to keep a “professional expression” at all times.

Several times, tourists saw us photographing and seized the opportunity to also get photos. They of course thought that we were also tourists, and that Ingrid was some random soldier who just happened to be available. We had to gently shoo them away, because Ingrid was not out there to be a tourist attraction.

While I was in the city anyway, I might as well have another go at watching the ceremony itself. This time I thought I was there in good time – 45 minutes in advance – and it was still almost too late. The very front of the area set aside for the public was almost filled up, and I squeezed in between two groups.

There’s no marching today because it’s still Ingrid’s regiment doing the guarding, but they do the ceremony part every day. One half of their group relieves the other half, with great pomp.

Ingrid’s regiment, the I19 from Boden, is in charge of guarding the Royal Palace for the next two weeks. Today, Ingrid’s group marched through central Stockholm, from the Army Museum to the palace, accompanied by a large marching band and escorted by mounted police. A very impressive show!

If I hadn’t gotten advance notice from Ingrid about her position in the ranks of marching soldiers, I would have had a hard time recognizing her. There were absolutely no facial expressions allowed, and Ingrid with a stone face barely looks like her own self.

I researched ahead of time to find a place with good views, and found a Youtube video that someone had recorded of another group’s procession along the same route. It was the perfect spot, and I also got an excellent video. When the group had passed me, I ran ahead of them to take photos, and so on all the way to the castle courtyard.

The courtyard was naturally fully packed with people by that time, so of the ceremony there I barely got a glimpse or two.

I took the train to work today, too tired to bike. And since I was in town, and actually have a monthly SL card, I took a detour on my way home to see a small embroidery exhibition. It was nice but much smaller than I had expected. Like, this is two of the four walls of the room, and behind me, out of view, is the other half. That’s it.

I do enjoy looking at other people’s embroidery, but also not. The finished piece is often much less interesting than the work of making it, the process of getting there. It’s more fun to look at what the others in the embroidery club are working on, to hear them tell about their choices and decisions. Even though this is the work of a professional and we’re hobbyists of no extraordinary skill.

This feels nice. Just going with the flow, using whatever stitch happens to feel right at that moment.

I might need to buy some more green embroidery floss to get a bit of variety.