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Step back: The Sinclair ZX81

Sometime in 1983 my mother noticed that a high street chemist that also sold photographic and electrical goods was also selling ZX81 computers for £20. It wasn’t christmas or a birthday but she thought that it might be useful for me. It wasn’t even something that I had asked for. She just thought it might be useful.

When we halved the polystrene casing we revealed the little black marvel, purest black with it’s name embossed in red. In case you ever forgot. I ran my fingers across its highly sensitive keypad and was sure I was witnessing something special. The form of the ZX81 is well known but for me as prominent in my memory was the little blue book which was the manual. ZX81 Manual Front Cover I spent a lot of time reading and referring to the ZX81 basic manual. The art work as much imprinted on my mind as the little black flashing  K  that was the ‘ear’ of the ZX81. The cover of the manual is futuristic with two tiny spacecraft parked on top of some space port or something. Completely stark raving crazy but it’s futuristic look added to the mystique of this little black box. One of the great parts about Sinclair research was their marketing. Their products, although remarkable for the time, were very poorly built and unreliable. But somehow they created desire.

The most memorable part of the book was a clock program from Chapter 19: Time & Motion. It’s hard to say quite what was so magical about this program, but I was awestruck when I ran it. The chapter doesn’t very clearly state that the code will draw a clock and a second hand but after typing it and pressing ‘RUN’ a numbered-dial slowly appears and then a dot sweeps around the outer-edge of the dial. For your pleasure I found a ZX81 emulator and typed the program in again and have recreated the magic for you right here.

Chapter 19: Time & Motion

Pretty heady stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. Over the next two or so years I spent a lot of time buying Sinclair magazines and typing in programs from them. It was great. You bought a magazine that you could read and then you could type in the program and also get a game to play. All for 60p. The games mostly blew goats and I spent more time checking my typing than playing the game but that didn’t really matter. One of Sir Clive’s great ideas was to attach keywords to the keys themselves. This meant that there wasn’t really any need for a full-parser because the ZX81 knew what to expect and would make the keyboard accept the right keystrokes at the right time. Whilst not terribly flexible this solution also meant that there was a whole lot less typing.

I can’t claim that I learned a lot about computers or programming in those halcyon days but my cliche 1,000 mile journey had started with a single cliche’d step.

Oh Sinclair, oh my Sinclair ZX81,
We used to laugh and have such fun,
During our time together I have no regret,
I cherish the day that we met.

Everything about you was so damn fine,
From your RAM pack wobble to your sleek lines,
But now you do what time says you must,
You sit in a corner and you pick up dust.

Sniffle.

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article programming

Software Dream-ualisation

Ok, I admit it, by some measures I am a sad, sad individual. Why? Because sometimes I dream about programming. Now those that know me might be thinking that in my dreams I sit in amongst monster rigs hacking away at some monster problem.

I have been told that the best crackers in the world can do this under 60 minutes but unfortunately I need someone who can do this under 60 seconds. — Gabriel, from the movie Swordfish

Sadly the un-reality of my slumber is a little more prosaic and not like Swordfish at all. These dreams are always bizarrely specific programming tasks that would require a small amount of thought if I was awake but since I’m not conscious, they are a little harder.

Last night was different, I dreamt of nothing and woke to the sound of vomitting children (my own). Once that drama was resolved I couldn’t find a way to drift off to sleep again because for some strange reason I’d started thinking about software visualisation. I don’t even want to think about how I got onto that train of thought.

Anyway, the thought went something like this. Could software have colour? I couldn’t see why not. If software had colour then would it be useful? I reasoned that yes, it could be designed to be useful to give software a colour. For instance, colours could be assigned to code-patterns and this might ease in the understanding of that code. Since code is easier to write than to read this seemed like a worthwhile aim.

But then I thought perhaps a better visualisation would be to colour and orient objects on a plane based on the amount of messages that object issues / receives, or some other arbitary scheme. This sounded like a really rather jolly idea and I resolved to investigate it more fully in the morning and I promptly fell asleep.

When daylight arrived I found a link to this research that does something very similar to what I was dream-scribing but the site hadn’t been touched since 1998. Other research, whilst relevant, seemed similarly dormant. The most recent research I could find is here. It uses Vizz3D to turn software into ‘cities’ that can be navigated. This is indeed exciting stuff, even if it was done in C/C++.

It’s long since fascinated me that the world of software is a dynamic ever-shifting place but the tools with which we work on that software (especially for very large projects) don’t really help in trying to conceptualise that software. Indeed, the code most of us see in the maintenance phase is at a lower level of abstraction than that of the overall structure of that software and the structure can be very hard to see by just looking at the code.

Sure we can use various tools like profilers and coverage analysers to view different dimensions of the software plane but they are not the whole picture and compositing those analyses into a coherent whole is still not easy.

Fast forward ten years, perhaps DevStudio or Eclipse will ship with a project visualizer. The information transmitted in a single visualisation could save hours of code-grokking. It probably won’t change the world but it would be very, very, useful.

But perhaps in ten years we will have brains the size of water-melons and be able to program computers using only our minds (like in Firefox). I guess it’s time to go back to sleep now. Sweet dreams.

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Shifting Sands of Time (or why Software Really Does Decay)

I’ve become morbidly obsessed with decay these days. My dentist doesn’t help but she’s nice about my receding gums and minor cavities so I let her off. But the more I look the more I see the decay, all around me.

I recently took this photograph on the back streets of my town. In the house of Bamboo The “Bamboo Bar” is long since abandoned but the newish bicycle suggests that perhaps there’s life inside. This abandonment theme is so common in Cyprus that it’s almost invisible. In some places the contrasts are stark, the new and glitzy sits yards from the old and beaten. Large stretches of land are waste ground not because it’s a waste-land but because the owners bought the plot a long time ago and will build a house. One day. Until that day the weeds grow tall and the tumble-rubbish piles high. Things in Cyprus take time, I have to remind myself to never forget that.

This theme pervades through all areas of life and I guess it happens everywhere it’s just the contrast here seems stark.

But what of software? It seems ludicrous to claim that software can decay because: it is abstract, has no moving parts and isn’t exposed to the environment. This seems true enough. But suppose such a notion of decay could be applied to software. If there’s no physical environment to aid decay then what environmental factors could there be?

Changing Requirements = Shifting Sands

For me this is the biggest challenge that faces us as software engineers. The shifting sands of requirements are real. Pinning them down for the delivery of the initial project is probably vital but once you have released the software the requirements can and will run free. Mentioning to your boss that ‘we didn’t factor that in to the original design’ sounds like an excuse and could seriously damage your bonus.

But what if new features are successfully added? New features can be added that upset whatever balance the application may of had. Over-time those new features could become poorly understood code dead-ends that end up polluting the source pool forever or even central aspects of the system (possibly eclipsing the original intended purpose of the software).

This consuming phenomenon can be seen in the physical world too. I used to own a series of bangers each car worse than the first. The worst purchase drove for about 100 miles and then needed a new engine. Others became accidental projects for an impatient and inept mechanic. Me. I remember the dawning horror when I realised that part of the problem with my Mini 1000

Mini 1000

was that I was putting new parts into it. The new parts would operate at peak efficiency in amongst a rotting husk of older parts. Those old parts surrounding the new parts understandably promptly failed under the new load. I did a lot of walking in those days.

Analogies are often imperfect and comparing cars to software is no different because software components don’t wear out! However, when the the requirements change you might replace one component with one that serves a slightly different purpose. Our replacement component might compromise the original design assumptions. We can do this successfully for some time, but we will eventually end up with a loss of direction. If things are going really bad you might even have a loss of vision.

Loss Of Vision & Bad Maintenance = Death by a thousand cuts

Every large project will have at least one or two architects. Those people are the knowledge-holders of why the system was built and what trade-offs were made and why. Over-time you will lose these people and when they’re gone you’ve got a problem. If the system is sufficiently large you will probably find that no one person has that original knowledge and when changing requirements happen the people you still have end up misunderstanding the code or taking shortcuts rather than refactoring. And this is undoubtedly because of Joel:

It’s harder to read code than to write it.

So, in my opinion any medium-to-large in-house software project decays. There’s no physical decay but any useful be-spoke software project will probably change as the business changes. The more time passes the further the source pool migrates from order to entropy and the harder to maintain and less efficient it becomes.

Running to stand still

The inevitability of this decay means you’ve got to do some things up-front in a new project to try and prevent your software being like my beloved Mini 1000

  • An identifiable design. This is largely impalpable but if a single person designed the original system and the coding standards were reasonably tight you might produce an identifiable design which others can follow. Of course design operates on many levels in software and when it comes to maintenance the chances are only the low-level design will be seen, the high-level design will probably be invisible to most.
  • When the knowledge-holders leave there is sufficient transference of understanding at all levels of the code. This probably also broaches the tricky topic of documentation
  • Finally, some of that knowledge can be encapsulated in tests (unit and integration). So that when we do end up on shifted sand we can at least assert that what we have now is of comparable quality to what we had then.

As for the “Bamboo Bar” I think its ship has sailed. My Mini 1000 is probably starring in a Scrapheap Challenge now. But I’m not sad, decay in some things can be beautiful. Sadly, my software is like my teeth. Decay doesn’t become them.

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article programming

Love Your Code

Someone said to me the other day. “I love that code. It’s so structured”. This is the first time anyone had ever admitted to me that they could indeed love code. Before I lifted the receiver to call the men in white coats I tried to absorb what he’d said. What he really meant, I suspect, is that he appreciated the code. But the more I thought about it the more I thought that we do in fact enter into relationships with the things we write.

This is further evidence, I guess that writing software is a creative process like painting a picture or designing a building. It becomes emotional. I suspect I’m far from alone when I say that I’ve spent a significant proportion of my career in an emotional tug-of-war with the programs I’m working on or have written myself. They have a sort-of-life all their own and usually I’m the Doctor Kildare keeping them alive. I haven’t lost a patient yet. But the most curious part of this form of creation, at least to outsiders, is that it has no permanence and the structure that my friend so admired is almost entirely abstract.

This impermanence makes the code we write invisible to the people that see what the code does. They have no knowledge and probably little understanding of what it took to make that program. When those people are the ones making the decisions then Houston we have a problem.

But there’s clearly good reason to be in love with your code. The more you love it the better chance it has of doing its job, working most of the time and failing rarely. But the best part of all is that by expending that little extra effort you made something that someone else can not only appreciate and understand but can modify themselves.

The stark reality of writing code that will get used for a purpose (and why would you do anything else?), is it will very soon need to be changed. If that code is successful it will only be a short matter of time before a new feature is added or, in the extreme, that code is used for something else entirely other than what it was designed for. I’ve seen that happen on two very large projects (>100,000 lines of code) and the fact that it could be done at all is evidence that the original code was well loved. In fact it would be difficult, I suspect for that code to exist at all if wasn’t loved. But once the purpose of the software is changed all bets are probably off (and the subject of another post!).

Consider then what happens when we don’t love the code we write. You don’t love it because you built it to throw-away or you built it under pressure always meaning to come back and fix up later. I’d be the first to admit that I’ve done this. There’s probably a few repercussions from being in this position. The chances are that the user that is on the receiving end of this unloved creation will get frustrated with it. That frustration will find it’s way back to you. Beware.

Worse is when you end up being the one frustrated with it and unable, for whatever reason, to change it. It’s like being Dr Frankenstein and watching your monster rip up the town whilst you sit in your chair and scratch your head for ways to bring it under control. Perhaps if you hadn’t sewed the monster’s head on backwards you wouldn’t be in this position? Well you’d better break out the sewing needles friend. You’re going to need them.

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Inspiration, Inertia and I

One of the things about writing a blog is that there has to be something to write about. I am a regular reader of Coding Horror because of two reasons:

  1. Jeff Attwood writes good articles
  2. He does one every working day of the week

This is no mean feat. I’ve been reading his blog for about 6 months and I can honestly say that, although there is a central theme running in his posts, I haven’t detected any obvious repetition yet. When I think about what I’ve achieved in the same time frame I’ve probably managed one-or-two per month!

I recently heard Jeff talk and I think I have an idea at why he’s so much more prolific: he’s prolific. He has made a commitment to himself to publish every working day and he does. And this effort generates momentum, which generates traffic to his site that generates comments and trackbacks that fuel further ideas for him to write about. Where he has intertia, I am inert.

As for the inspiration it’s like anything. The more you do it the more you can do it. It’s a form of exercise for your writing brain. Once you start writing the ideas start to flow. I’ve been in love with the idea of writing for a long time, so perhaps I should follow the advice from his .NET rocks article and make a commitment to publish.

My original reason for beginning this blog was to write about the technical tricks and traps that I discovered. Mostly as a source of documentation but also as an experiment. But lots of people do this, because it means you don’t have to think about what you write. Yes, it serves a useful purpose because it means that a lot of problems I encounter can easily be looked up and fixed. But if someone else writes it and documents it am I adding anything by doing the same? I know the answer to this has to be no. If 95% of the internet disappeared tomorrow I’m still pretty sure I could Google to find out the syntax for adding a CONSTRAINT to a MySQL database table.

Please believe me. I’m not looking for the fame or hits. Just looking for my voice. When I find it I’ll be sure to let you know.