Paul Boddie's Free Software-related blog

This has been going on for years, but a recent upgrade brought it to my attention and it rather says everything about what is wrong with the way technology is supposedly improved. If you define a style for your Web pages using a monospaced font like Courier, Firefox still decides to convert letter pairs like “fi” and “fl” to ligatures. In other words, it squashes the two letters together into a single character.

Now, I suppose that it does this in such a way that the resulting ligature only occupies the space of a single character, thereby not introducing proportional spacing that would disrupt the alignment of characters across lines, but it does manage to disrupt the distribution of characters and potentially the correspondence of characters between lines. Worst of all, though, this enforced conversion is just ugly.

Here is what WordPress seems to format without suffering from this problem, by explicitly using the “monospace” font-style identifier:

long client_flush(file_t *file);

And here is what happens when Courier is chosen as the font:

long client_flush(file_t *file);

In case theming, browser behaviour, and other factors obscure the effect I am attempting to illustrate, here it is with the ligatures deliberately introduced:

long client_flush(file_t *file);

In fact, the automatic ligatures do remain as two distinct letters crammed into a single space whereas I had to go and find the actual ligatures in LibreOffice’s “special character” dialogue to paste into the example above. One might argue that by keeping the letters distinct, it preserves the original text so that it can be copied and pasted back into a suitable environment, like a program source file or an interactive prompt or shell. But still, when the effect being sought is not entirely obtained, why is anyone actually bothering to do this?

It seems to me that this is yet another example of “design” indoctrination courtesy of the products of companies like Apple and Adobe, combined with the aesthetics-is-everything mentality that values style over substance. How awful it is that someone may put the letter “f” next to the letter “i” or “l” without pulling them closer together and using stylish typographic constructs!

Naturally, someone may jump to the defence of the practice being described here, claiming that what is really happening is kerning, as if someone like me might not have heard of it. Unfortunately for them, I spent quite a bit of time in the early 1990s – quite possibly before some of today’s “design” gurus were born – learning about desktop publishing and typography (for a system that had a coherent outline font system before platforms like the Macintosh and Windows did). Generally, you don’t tend to apply kerning to monospaced fonts like Courier: the big hint is the “monospaced” bit.

Apparently, the reason for this behaviour is something to do with the font library being used and it will apparently be fixed in future Firefox releases, or at least ones later than the one I happen to be using in Debian. Workarounds using configuration files reminiscent of the early 2000s Linux desktop experience apparently exist, although I don’t think they really work.

But anyway, well done to everyone responsible for this mess, whether it was someone’s great typographic “design” vision being imposed on everyone else, or whether it was just that yet more technologies were thrown into the big cauldron and stirred around without any consideration of the consequences. I am sure yet more ingredients will be thrown in to mask the unpleasant taste, also conspiring to make all our computers run more slowly.

Sometimes I think that “modern Web” platform architects have it as their overriding goal to reproduce the publishing solutions of twenty to thirty years ago using hardware hundreds or even thousands of times more powerful, yet delivering something that runs even slower and still producing comparatively mediocre results. As if the aim is to deliver something akin to a turn-of-the-century Condé Nast publication on the Web with gigabytes of JavaScript.

But maybe, at least for the annoyance described here, the lesson is that if something is barely worth doing, largely because it is probably only addressing someone’s offended sense of aesthetics, maybe just don’t bother doing it. There are, after all, plenty of other things in the realm of technology and beyond that more legitimately demand humanity’s attention.

Previously, I described exploring the matter of developing emulation of a serial port, along with the necessary circuitry, for Elkulator, an emulator for the Acorn Electron microcomputer, motivated by a need to provide a way of transferring files into and out of the emulated computer. During this exploration, I had discovered some existing software that had been developed to provide some level of serial “filing system” support on the BBC Microcomputer – the higher-specification sibling of the Electron – with the development of this software having been motivated by an unforeseen need to transfer software to a computer without any attached storage devices.

This existing serial filing system software was a good indication that serial communications could provide the basis of a storage medium. But instead of starting from a predicament involving computers without usable storage facilities, where an unforeseen need motivates the development of a clever workaround, I wanted to consider what such a system might have been like if there had been a deliberate plan from the very beginning to deploy computers that would rely on a serial connection for all their storage needs. Instead of having an implementation of the filing system in RAM, one could have the luxury of putting it into a ROM chip that would be fitted in the computer or in an expansion, and a richer set of features might then be contemplated.

A Smarter Terminal

Once again, my interest in the historical aspects of the technology provided some guidance and some inspiration. When microcomputers started to become popular and businesses and institutions had to decide whether these new products had any relevance to their operations, there was some uncertainty about whether such products were capable enough to be useful or whether they were a distraction from the facilities already available in such organisations. It seems like a lifetime ago now, but having a computer on every desk was not necessarily seen as a guarantee of enhanced productivity, particularly if they did not link up to existing facilities or did not coordinate the work of a number of individuals.

At the start of the 1980s, equipping an office with a computer on every desk and equipping every computer with a storage solution was an expensive exercise. Even disk drives offering only a hundred kilobytes of storage on each removable floppy disk were expensive, and hard disk drives were an especially expensive and precious luxury that were best shared between many users. Some microcomputers were marketed as multi-user systems, encouraging purchasers to connect terminals to them and to share those precious resources: precisely the kind of thing that had been done with minicomputers and mainframes. Such trends continued into the mid-1980s, manifested by products promoted by companies with mainframe origins, such companies perpetuating entrenched tendencies to frame computing solutions in certain ways.

Terminals themselves were really just microcomputers designed for the sole purpose of interacting with a “host” computer, and institutions already operating mainframes and minicomputers would have experienced the need to purchase several of them. Until competition intensified in the terminal industry, such products were not particularly cheap, with the DEC VT220 introduced in 1983 costing $1295 at its introduction. Meanwhile, interest in microcomputers and the possibility of distributing some kinds of computing activity to these new products, led to experimentation in some organisations. Some terminal manufacturers responded by offering terminals that also ran microcomputer software.

Much of the popular history of microcomputing, familiar to anyone who follows such topics online, particularly through YouTube videos, focuses on adoption of such technology in the home, with an inevitable near-obsession with gaming. The popular history of institutional adoption often focuses on the upgrade parade from one generation of computer to the next. But there is a lesser told history involving the experimentation that took place at the intersection of microcomputing and minicomputing or mainframe computing. In universities, computers like the BBC Micro were apparently informally introduced as terminals for other systems, terminal ROMs were developed and shared between institutions. However, there seems to have been relatively little mainstream interest in such software as fully promoted commercial products, although Acornsoft – Acorn’s software outlet – did adopt such a ROM to sell as their Termulator product.

The Acorn Electron, introduced at £199, had a “proper” keyboard and the ability to display 80 columns of text, unlike various other popular microcomputers. Indeed, it may have been the lowest-priced computer to be able to display 80 columns of relatively high definition text as standard, such capabilities requiring extra cards for machines like the Apple II and the Commodore 64. Considering the much lower price of such a computer, the ongoing experimentation underway at the time with its sibling machine on alternative terminal solutions, and the generally favourable capabilities of both these machines, it seems slightly baffling that more was not done to pursue opportunities to introduce a form of “intelligent terminal” or “hybrid terminal” product to certain markets.

VIEW in 80 columns on the Acorn Electron.

None of this is to say that institutional users would have been especially enthusiastic. In some institutions, budgets were evidently generous enough that considerable sums of money would be spent acquiring workstations that were sometimes of questionable value. But in others, the opportunity to make savings, to explore other ways of working, and perhaps also to explicitly introduce microcomputing topics such as software development for lower-specification hardware would have been worthy of some consideration. An Electron with a decent monochrome monitor, like the one provided with the M2105, plus some serial hardware, could have comprised a product sold for perhaps as little as £300.

The Hybrid Terminal

How would a “hybrid terminal” solution work, how might it have been adopted, and what might it have been used for? Through emulation and by taking advantage of the technological continuity in multi-user systems from the 1980s to the present day, we can attempt to answer such questions. Starting with communications technologies familiar in the world of the terminal, we might speculate that a serial connection would be the most appropriate and least disruptive way of interfacing a microcomputer to a multi-user system.

Although multi-user systems, like those produced by Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC), might have offered network connectivity, it is likely that such connectivity was proprietary, expensive in terms of the hardware required, and possibly beyond the interfacing capabilities of most microcomputers. Meanwhile, Acorn’s own low-cost networking solution, Econet, would not have been directly compatible with these much higher-end machines. Acorn’s involvement in network technologies is also more complicated than often portrayed, but as far as Econet is concerned, only much later machines would more conveniently bridge the different realms of Econet and standards-based higher-performance networks.

Moreover, it remains unlikely that operators and suppliers of various multi-user systems would have been enthusiastic about fitting dedicated hardware and installing dedicated software for the purpose of having such systems communicate with third-party computers using a third-party network technology. I did find it interesting that someone had also adapted Acorn’s network filing system that usually runs over Econet to work instead over a serial connection, which presumably serves files out of a particular user account. Another discovery I made was a serial filing system approach by someone who had worked at Acorn who wanted to transfer files between a BBC Micro system and a Unix machine, confirming that such functionality was worth pursuing. (And there is also a rather more complicated approach involving more exotic Acorn technology.)

Indeed, to be successful, a hybrid terminal approach would have to accommodate existing practices and conventions as far as might be feasible in order to not burden or disturb the operators of these existing systems. One motivation from an individual user’s perspective might be to justify introducing a computer on their desk, to be able to have it take advantage of the existing facilities, and to augment those facilities where it might be felt that they are not flexible or agile enough. Such users might request help from the operators, but the aim would be to avoid introducing more support hassles, which would easily arise if introducing a new kind of network to the mix. Those operators would want to be able to deploy something and have it perform a role without too much extra thought.

I considered how a serial link solution might achieve this. An existing terminal would be connected to, say, a Unix machine and be expected to behave like a normal client, allowing the user to log into their account. The microcomputer would send some characters down the serial line to the Unix “host”, causing it to present the usual login prompt, and the user would then log in as normal. They would then have the option of conducting an interactive session, making their computer like a conventional terminal, but there would also be the option of having the Unix system sit in the background, providing other facilities on request.

Logging into a remote service via a serial connection.

The principal candidates for these other facilities would be file storage and printing. Both of these things were centrally managed in institutions, often available via the main computing service, and the extensible operating system of the Electron and related microcomputers invites the development of software to integrate the core support for these facilities with such existing infrastructure. Files would be loaded from the user’s account on the multi-user system and saved back there again. Printing would spool the printed data to files somewhere in the user’s home directory for queuing to centralised printing services.

Attempting an Implementation

I wanted to see how such a “serial computing environment” would work in practice, how it would behave, what kinds of applications might benefit, and what kind of annoyances it might have. After all, it might be an interesting idea or a fun idea, but it need not be a particularly good one. The first obstacle was that of understanding how the software elements would work, primarily on the Electron itself, from the tasks that I would want the software to perform down to the way the functionality would be implemented. On the host or remote system, I was rather more convinced that something could be implemented since it would mostly be yet another server program communicating over a stream, with plenty of modern Unix conveniences to assist me along the way.

As it turned out, my investigations began with a trip away from home and the use of a different, and much more constrained, development environment involving an ARM-based netbook. Fortunately, Elkulator and the different compilers and tools worked well enough on that development hardware to make the exercise approachable. Another unusual element was that I was going to mostly rely on the original documentation in the form of the actual paper version of the Acorn Electron Advanced User Guide for information on how to write the software for the Electron. It was enlightening coming back to this book after a few decades for assistance on a specific exercise, even though I have perused the book many times in its revised forms online, because returning to it with a focus on a particular task led me to find that the documentation in the book was often vague or incomplete.

Although the authors were working in a different era and presumably under a degree of time pressure, I feel that the book in some ways exhibits various traits familiar to those of us working in the software industry, these indicating a lack of rigour and of sufficient investment in systems documentation. For this, I mostly blame the company who commissioned the work and then presumably handed over some notes and told the authors to fill in the gaps. As if to strengthen such perceptions of hurriedness and lack of review, it also does not help that “system” is mis-spelled “sysem” in a number of places in the book!

Nevertheless, certain aspects of the book were helpful. The examples, although focusing on one particular use-case, did provide helpful detail in deducing the correct way of using certain mechanisms, even if they elected to avoid the correct way of performing other tasks. Acorn’s documentation had a habit of being “preachy” about proper practices, only to see its closest developers ignore those practices, anyway. Eventually, on returning from my time away, I was able to fill in some of the gaps, although by this time I had a working prototype that was able to do basic things like initiate a session on the host system and to perform some file-related operations.

There were, and still are, a lot of things that needed, and still need, improvement with my implementation. The way that the operating system needs to be extended to provide extra filing system functionality involves plenty of programming interfaces, plenty of things to support, and also plenty of opportunities for things to go wrong. The VIEW word processor makes use of interfaces for both whole-file loading and saving as well as random-access file operations. Missing out support for one or the other will probably not yield the desired level of functionality.

There are also intricacies with regard to switching printing on and off – this typically being done using control characters sent through the output stream – and of “spool” files which capture character output. And filing system ROMs need to be initialised through a series of “service calls”, these being largely documented, but the overall mechanism is left largely undescribed in the documentation. It is difficult enough deciphering the behaviour of the Electron’s operating system today, with all the online guidance available in many forms, so I cannot imagine how difficult it would have been as a third party to effectively develop applications back in the day.

Levels of Simulation

To support the activities of the ROM software in the emulated Electron, I had to develop a server program running on my host computer. As noted above, this was not onerous, especially since I had already written a program to exercise the serial communications and to interact with the emulated serial port. I developed this program further to respond to commands issued by my ROM, performing host operations and returning results. For example, the CAT command produces a “catalogue” of files in a host directory, and so my server program performs a directory listing operation, collects the names of the files, and then sends them over the virtual serial link to the ROM for it to display to the user.

To make the experience somewhat authentic and to approximate to an actual deployment environment, I included a simulation of the login prompt so that the user of the emulated Electron would have to log in first, with the software also having to deal with a logged out (or not yet logged in) condition in a fairly graceful way. To ensure that they are logged in, a user selects the Serial Computing Environment using the *SCE command, this explicitly selecting the serial filing system, and the login dialogue is then presented if the user has not yet logged into the remote host. Once logged in, the ROM software should be able to test for the presence of the command processor that responds to issued commands, only issuing commands if the command processor has signalled its presence.

Although this models a likely deployment environment, I wanted to go a bit further in terms of authenticity, and so I decided to make the command processor a separate program that would be installed in a user account on a Unix machine. The user’s profile script would be set up to run the command processor, so that when they logged in, this program would automatically run and be ready for commands. I was first introduced to such practices in my first workplace where a menu-driven, curses-based program I had written was deployed so that people doing first-line technical support could query the database of an administrative system without needing to be comfortable with the Unix shell environment.

For complete authenticity I would actually want to have the emulated Electron contact a Unix-based system over a physical serial connection, but for now I have settled for an arrangement whereby a pseudoterminal is created to run the login program, with the terminal output presented to the emulator. Instead of seeing a simulated login dialogue, the user now interacts with the host system’s login program, allowing them to log into a real account. At that point, the command processor is invoked by the shell and the user gets back control.

Obtaining a genuine login dialogue from a Unix system.

To prevent problems with certain characters, the command processor configures the terminal to operate in raw mode. Apart from that, it operates mostly as it did when run together with the login simulation which did not have to concern itself with such things as terminals and login programs.

Some Applications

This effort was motivated by the need or desire to be able to access files from within Elkulator, particularly from applications such as VIEW. Naturally, VIEW is really just one example from the many applications available for the Electron, but since it interacts with a range of functionality that this serial computing environment provides, it serves to showcase such functionality fairly well. Indeed, some of the screenshots featured in this and the previous article show VIEW operating on text that was saved and loaded over the serial connection.

Accessing files involves some existing operating system commands, such as *CAT (often abbreviated to *.) to list the catalogue of a storage medium. Since a Unix host supports hierarchical storage, whereas the Electron’s built-in command set only really addresses the needs of a flat storage medium (as provided by various floppy disk filing systems for Electron and BBC Micro), the *DIR command has been introduced from Acorn’s hierarchical filing systems (such as ADFS) to navigate between directories, which is perhaps confusing to anyone familiar with other operating systems, such as the different variants of DOS and their successors.

Using catalogue and directory traversal commands.

VIEW allows documents to be loaded and saved in a number of ways, but as a word processor it also needs to be able to print these documents. This might be done using a printer connected to a parallel port, but it makes a bit more sense to instead allow the serial printer to be selected and for printing to occur over the serial connection. However, it is not sufficient to merely allow the operating system to take over the serial link and to send the printed document, if only because the other side of this link is not a printer! Indeed, the command processor is likely to be waiting for commands and to see the incoming data as ill-formed input.

The chosen solution was to intercept attempts to send characters to a serial printer, buffering them and then sending the buffered data in special commands to the command processor. This in turn would write the printed characters to a “spool” file for each printing session. From there, these files could be sent to an appropriate printer. This would give the user rather more control over printing, allowing them to process the printout with Unix tools, or to select one particular physical printer out of the many potentially available in an organisation. In the VIEW environment, and in the MOS environment generally, there is no built-in list of printers or printer selection dialogue.

Since the kinds of printers anticipated for use with VIEW might well have been rather different from the kinds connected to multi-user systems, it is likely that some processing would be desirable where different text styles and fonts have been employed. Today, projects like PrinterToPDF exist to work with old-style printouts, but it is conceivable that either the “printer driver generator” in the View suite or some postprocessing tool might have been used to produce directly printable output. With unstyled text, however, the printouts are generally readable and usable, as the following excerpt illustrates.

               A  brief report on the experience
               of using VIEW as a word processor
               four decades on.

Using VIEW on the Acorn  Electron  is  an  interesting  experience  and  a
glimpse  into  the  way  word  processing  was  once done. Although I am a
dedicated user of Vim, I am under no  illusions  of  that  program's  word
processing  capabilities: it is deliberately a screen editor based on line
editor  heritage,  and  much  of  its  operations  are  line-oriented.  In
contrast, VIEW is intended to provide printed output: it presents the user
with a  ruler  showing  the  page margins and tab stops, and it even saves
additional   rulers   into  the  stored  document   in   their   on-screen
representations. Together with its default typewriter-style  behaviour  of
allowing  the  cursor  to  be moved into empty space and of overwriting or
replacing text, there is a quaint feel to it.

Since VIEW is purely text-based, I can easily imagine converting its formatting codes to work with troff. That would then broaden the output options. Interestingly, the Advanced User Guide was written in VIEW and then sent to a company for typesetting, so perhaps a workflow like this would have been useful for the authors back then.

A major selling point of the Electron was its provision of BBC BASIC as the built-in language. As the BBC Micro had started to become relatively widely adopted in schools across the United Kingdom, a less expensive computer offering this particular dialect of BASIC was attractive to purchasers looking for compatibility with school computers at home. Obviously, there is a need to be able to load and save BASIC programs, and this can be done using the serial connection.

Loading a BASIC program from the Unix host.

Beyond straightforward operations like these, BASIC also provides random-access file operations through various keywords and constructs, utilising the underlying operating system interfaces that invoke filing system operations to perform such work. VIEW also appears to use these operations, so it seems sensible not to ignore them, even if many programmers might have preferred to use bulk transfer operations – the standard load and save – to get data in and out of memory quickly.

A BASIC program reading and showing a file.

Interactions between printing, the operating system’s own spooling support, outputting characters and reading and writing data are tricky. A degree of experimentation was required to make these things work together. In principle, it should be possible to print and spool at the same time, even with output generated by the remote host that has been sent over the serial line for display on the Electron!

Of course, as a hybrid terminal, the exercise would not be complete without terminal functionality. Here, I wanted to avoid going down another rabbit hole and implementing a full terminal emulator, but I still wanted to demonstrate the invocation of a shell on the Unix host and the ability to run commands. To show just another shell session transcript would be rather dull, so here I present the perusal of a Python program to generate control codes that change the text colour on the Electron, along with the program’s effects:

Interaction with the shell featuring multiple text colours.

As a bitmapped terminal, the Electron is capable of much more than this. Although limited to moderate resolutions by the standards of the fanciest graphics terminals even of that era, there are interesting possibilities for Unix programs and scripts to generate graphical output.

A chart generated by a Python program showing workstation performance results.

Sending arbitrary character codes requires a bit of terminal configuration magic so that line feeds do not get translated into other things (the termios manual page is helpful, here, suggesting the ONLCR flag as the culprit), but the challenge, as always, is to discover the piece of the stack of technologies that is working against you. Similar things can be said on the Electron as well, with its own awkward confluence of character codes for output and output control, requiring the character output state to be tracked so that certain values do not get misinterpreted in the wrong context.

Others have investigated terminal connectivity on Acorn’s 8-bit microcomputers and demonstrated other interesting ways of producing graphical output from Unix programs. Acornsoft’s Termulator could even emulate a Tektronix 4010 graphical terminal. Curiously, Termulator also supported file transfer between a BBC Micro and the host machine, although only as a dedicated mode and limited to ASCII-only text files, leaving the hybrid terminal concept unexplored.

Reflections and Remarks

I embarked on this exercise with some cautiousness, knowing that plenty of uncertainties lay ahead in implementing a functional piece of software, and there were plenty of frustrating moments as some of the different elements of the rather underdocumented software stack conspired to produce undesirable behaviour. In addition, the behaviour of my serial emulation code had a confounding influence, requiring some low-level debugging (tracing execution within the emulator instruction by instruction, noting the state of the emulated CPU), some slowly dawning realisations, and some adjustments to hopefully make it work in a more cooperative fashion.

There are several areas of potential improvement. I first programmed in 6502 assembly language maybe thirty-five years ago, and although I managed to get some sprite and scrolling routines working, I never wrote any large programs, nor had to interact with the operating system frameworks. I personally find the 6502 primitive, rigid, and not particularly conducive to higher-level programming techniques, and I found myself writing some macros to take away the tedium of shuffling values between registers and the stack, constantly aware of various pitfalls with regard to corrupting registers.

My routines extending the operating system framework possibly do not do things the right way or misunderstand some details. That, I will blame on the vague documentation as well as any mistakes made micromanaging the registers. Particularly frustrating was the way that my ROM code would be called with interrupts disabled in certain cases. This made implementation challenging when my routines needed to communicate over the serial connection, when such communication itself requires interrupts to be enabled. Quite what the intention of the MOS designers was in such circumstances remains something of a mystery. While writing this article, I realised that I could have implemented the printing functionality in a different way, and this might have simplified things, right up to the point where I saw, thanks to the debugger provided by Elkulator, that the routines involved are called – surprise! – with interrupts disabled.

Performance could be a lot better, with this partly due to my own code undoubtedly requiring optimisation. The existing software stack is probably optimised to a reasonable extent, but there are various persistent background activities that probably steal CPU cycles unnecessarily. One unfortunate contributor to performance limitations is the hardware architecture of the Electron. Indeed, I discovered while testing in one of the 80-column display modes that serial transfers were not reliable at the default transfer rate of 9600 baud, instead needing to be slowed down to only 2400 baud. Some diagnosis confirmed that the software was not reading the data from the serial chip quickly enough, causing an overflow condition and data being lost.

Motivated by cost reduction and product positioning considerations – the desire to avoid introducing a product that might negatively affect BBC Micro sales – the Electron was deliberately designed to use a narrow data bus to fewer RAM chips than otherwise would have been used, with a seemingly clever technique being employed to allow the video circuitry to get the data at the desired rate to produce a high-resolution or high-bandwidth display. Unfortunately, the adoption of the narrow data bus, facilitated by the adoption of this particular technique, meant that the CPU could only ever access RAM at half its rated speed. And with the narrow data bus, the video circuitry effectively halts the CPU altogether for a substantial portion of its time in high-bandwidth display modes. Since serial communications handling relies on the delivery and handling of interrupts, if the CPU is effectively blocked from responding quickly enough, it can quickly fall behind if the data is arriving and the interrupts are occurring too often.

That does raise the issue of reliability and of error correction techniques. Admittedly, this work relies on a reliable connection between the emulated Electron and the host. Some measures are taken to improve the robustness of the communication when messages are interrupted so that the host in particular is not left trying to send or receive large volumes of data that are no longer welcome or available, and other measures are taken to prevent misinterpretation of stray data received in a different and thus inappropriate context. I imagine that I may have reinvented the wheel badly here, but these frustrations did provide a level of appreciation of the challenges involved.

Some Broader Thoughts

It is possible that Acorn, having engineered the Electron too aggressively for cost, made the machine less than ideal for the broader range of applications for which it was envisaged. That said, it should have been possible to revise the design and produce a more performant machine. Experiments suggest that a wider data path to RAM would have helped with the general performance of the Electron, but to avoid most of the interrupt handling problems experienced with the kind of application being demonstrated here, the video system would have needed to employ its existing “clever” memory access technique in conjunction with that wider data path so as to be able to share the bandwidth more readily with the CPU.

Contingency plans should have been made to change or upgrade the machine, if that had eventually been deemed necessary, starting at the point in time when the original design compromises were introduced. Such flexibility and forethought would also have made a product with a longer appeal to potential purchasers, as opposed to a product that risked being commercially viable for only a limited period of time. However, it seems that the lessons accompanying such reflections on strategy and product design were rarely learned by Acorn. If lessons were learned, they appear to have reinforced a particular mindset and design culture.

Virtue is often made of the Acorn design philosophy and the sometimes rudely expressed and dismissive views of competing technologies that led the company to develop the ARM processor. This approach enabled comparatively fast and low-cost systems to be delivered by introducing a powerful CPU to do everything in a system from running applications to servicing interrupts for data transfers, striving for maximal utilisation of the available memory bandwidth by keeping the CPU busy. That formula worked well enough at the low end of the market, but when the company tried to move upmarket once again, its products were unable to compete with those of other companies. Ultimately, this sealed the company’s fate, even if more fortuitous developments occurred to keep ARM in the running.

(In the chart shown earlier demonstating graphical terminal output and illustrating workstation performance, circa 1990, Acorn’s R260 workstation is depicted as almost looking competitive until one learns that the other workstations depicted arrived a year earlier and that the red bar showing floating-point performance only applies to Acorn’s machine three years after its launch. It would not be flattering to show the competitors at that point in history, nor would it necessarily be flattering to compare whole-system performance, either, if any publication sufficiently interested in such figures had bothered to do so. There is probably an interesting story to be told about these topics, particularly how Acorn’s floating-point hardware arrived so late, but I doubt that there is the same willingness to tell it as there is to re-tell the usual celebratory story of ARM for the nth time.)

Acorn went on to make the Communicator as a computer that would operate in a kind of network computing environment, relying on network file servers to provide persistent storage. It reused some of the technology in the Electron and the BT Merlin M2105, particularly the same display generator and its narrow data bus to RAM, but ostensibly confining that aspect of the Electron’s architecture to a specialised role, and providing other facilities for applications and, as in the M2105, for interaction with peripherals. Sadly, the group responsible in Acorn had already been marginalised and eventually departed, apparently looking to pursue the concept elsewhere.

As for this particular application of an old computer and a product that was largely left uncontemplated, I think there probably was some mileage in deploying microcomputers in this way, even outside companies like Acorn where such computers were being developed and used, together with software development companies with their own sophisticated needs, where minicomputers like the DEC VAX would have been available for certain corporate or technical functions. Public (or semi-public) access terminals were fairly common in universities, and later microcomputers were also adopted in academia due to their low cost and apparently sufficient capabilities.

Although such adoption appears to have focused on terminal applications, it cannot have been beyond the wit of those involved to consider closer integration between the microcomputing and multi-user environments. In further and higher education, students will have had microcomputing experience and would have been able to leverage their existing skills whilst learning new ones. They might have brought their microcomputers along with them, giving them the opportunity to transfer or migrate their existing content – their notes, essays, programs – to the bright and emerging new world of Unix, as well as updating their expertise.

As for updating my own expertise, it has been an enlightening experience in some ways, and I may well continue to augment the implemented functionality, fix and improve things, and investigate the possibilities this work brings. I hope that this rather lengthy presentation of the effort has provided insights into experiences of the past that was and the past that might have been.

In the last couple of years, possibly in common with quite a few other people, certainly people of my vintage, and undoubtedly those also interested in retrocomputing, I have found myself revisiting certain aspects of my technological past. Fortunately, sites like the Internet Archive make this very easy indeed, allowing us to dive into publications from earlier eras and to dredge up familiar and not so familiar magazine titles and other documentation. And having pursued my retrocomputing interest for a while, participating in forums, watching online videos, even contributing to new software and hardware developments, I have found myself wanting to review some of the beliefs and perceptions that I and other people have had of the companies and products we grew up with.

One of the products of personal interest to me is the computer that got me and my brother started with writing programs (as well as playing games): the Acorn Electron, a product of Acorn Computers of Cambridge in the United Kingdom. Much can be said about the perceived chronology of this product’s development and introduction, the actual chronology, and its impact on its originator and on wider society, but that surely deserves a separate treatment. What I can say is that reviewing the archives and other knowledge available to us now can give a deeper understanding of the processes involved in the development of the Electron, the technological compromises made, and the corporate strategy that led to its creation and eventually its discontinuation.

The Acorn Electron
(Picture attribution: By Bilby – Own work, CC BY 3.0, Link)

It has been popular to tell simplistic narratives about Acorn Computers, to reduce its history to a few choice moments as the originator of the BBC Microcomputer and the ARM processor, but to do so is to neglect a richer and far more interesting story, even if the fallibility of some of the heroic and generally successful characters involved may be exposed by telling some of that story. And for those who wonder how differently some aspects of computing history might have turned out, exploring that story and the products involved can be an adventure in itself, filling in the gaps of our prior experiences with new insights, realisations and maybe even glimpses into opportunities missed and what might have been if things had played out differently.

At the Rabbit Hole

Reading about computing history is one thing, but this tale is about actually doing things with old software, emulation, and writing new software. It started off with a discussion about the keyboard shortcuts for a word processor and the differences between the keyboards on the Acorn Electron and its higher-specification predecessor, the BBC Microcomputer. Having acquainted myself with the circuitry of the Electron, how its keyboard is wired up, and how the software accesses it, I was obviously intrigued by these apparent differences, but I was also intrigued by the operation of the word processor in question, Acornsoft’s VIEW.

Back in the day, as people like to refer to the time when these products were first made available, such office or productivity applications were just beyond my experience. Although it was slightly fascinating to read about them, most of my productive time was spent writing programs, mostly trying to write games. I had actually seen an office suite written by Psion on the ACT Sirius 1 in the early 1980s, but word processors were the kind of thing that people used in offices or, at the very least, by people who had a printer so that they could print the inevitable letters that everyone would be needing to write.

Firing up an Acorn Electron emulator, specifically Elkulator, I discovered that one of the participants in the discussion was describing keyboard shortcuts that didn’t match up to those that were described in a magazine article from the era, these appearing correct as I tried them out for myself. It turned out that the discussion participant in question was using the BBC Micro version of VIEW on the Electron and was working around the mismatch in keyboard layouts. Although all of this was much ado about virtually nothing, it did two things. Firstly, it made me finally go in and fix Elkulator’s keyboard configuration dialogue, and secondly, it made me wonder how convenient it would be to explore old software in a productive way in an emulator.

Reconciling Keyboards

Having moved to Norway many years ago now, I use a Norwegian keyboard layout, and this has previously been slightly problematic when using emulators for older machines. Many years ago, I used and even contributed some minor things to another emulator, ElectrEm, which had a nice keyboard configuration dialogue. The Electron’s keyboard corresponds to certain modern keyboards pretty well, at least as far as the alphanumeric keys are concerned. More challenging are the symbols and control-related keys, in particular the Electron’s special Caps Lock/Function key which sits where many people now have their Tab key.

Obviously, there is a need to be able to tell an emulator which keys on a modern keyboard are going to correspond to the keys on the emulated machine. Being derived from an emulator for the BBC Micro, however, Elkulator’s keyboard configuration dialogue merely presented a BBC Micro keyboard on the screen and required the user to guess which “Beeb” key might correspond to an Electron one. Having put up with this situation for some time, I finally decided to fix this once and for all. The process of doing so is not particularly interesting, so I will spare you the details of doing things with the Allegro toolkit and the Elkulator source code, but I was mildly pleased with the result:

The revised keyboard configuration dialogue in Elkulator.

By also adding support for redefining the Break key in a sensible way, I was also finally able to choose a key that desktop environments don’t want to interfere with: F12 might work for Break, but Ctrl-F12 makes KDE/Plasma do something I don’t want, and yet Ctrl-Break is quite an important key combination when using an Electron or BBC Micro. Why Break isn’t a normal key on these machines is another story in itself, but here is an example of redefining it and even allowing multiple keys on a modern keyboard to act as Break on the emulated computer:

Redefining the Break key in Elkulator.

Being able to confidently choose and use keys made it possible to try out VIEW in a more natural way. But this then led to another issue: how might I experiment with such software productively? It would be good to write documents and to be able to extract them from the emulator, rather than see them disappear when the emulator is closed.

Real and Virtual Machines

One way to get text out of a system, whether it is a virtual system like the emulated Electron or a real machine, is to print it. I vaguely remembered some support for printing from Elkulator and was reminded by my brother that he had implemented such support himself a while ago as a quick way of getting data out of the emulated system. But I also wanted to be able to get data into the emulated system as well, and the parallel interface typically used by the printer is not bidirectional on the Electron. So, I would need to look further for a solution.

It is actually the case that Elkulator supports reading from and writing to disk (or disc) images. The unexpanded Electron supports read/write access to cassettes (or tapes), but Elkulator does not support writing to tapes, probably because the usability considerations are rather complicated: one would need to allow the user to control the current position on a tape, and all this would do is to remind everyone how inconvenient tapes are. Meanwhile, writing to disk images would be fairly convenient within the emulator, but then one would need to use tools to access the files within the images outside the emulator.

Some emulators for various systems also support the notion of a host filesystem (or filing system) where some special support has been added to make the emulated machine see another peripheral and to communicate with it, this peripheral really being a program on the host machine (the machine that is running the emulator). I could have just written such support, although it would also have needed some software support written for the emulated machine as well, but this approach would have led me down a path of doing something specific to emulation. And I have a principle of sorts which is that if I am going to change the way an emulated machine behaves, it has to be rooted in some kind of reality and not just enhance the emulated machine in a way that the original, “real” machine could not have been.

Building on Old Foundations

As noted earlier, I have an interest in the way that old products were conceived and the roles for which those products were intended by their originators. The Electron was largely sold as an unexpanded product, offering only power, display and cassette ports, with a general-purpose expansion connector being the gateway to anything else that might have been added to the system later. This was perceived somewhat negatively when the machine was launched because it was anticipated that buyers would probably, at the very least, want to plug joysticks into the Electron to play games. Instead, Acorn offered an expansion unit, the Plus 1, that cost another £60 which provided joystick, printer and cartridge connectors.

But this flexibility in expanding the machine meant that it could have been used as the basis for a fairly diverse range of specialised products. In fact, one of the Acorn founders, Chris Curry, enthused about the Electron as a platform for such products, and one such product did actually make it to market, in a way: the BT Merlin M2105 messaging terminal. This terminal combined the Electron with an expansion unit containing circuitry for communicating over a telephone line, a generic serial communications port, a printer port, as well as speech synthesis circuitry and a substantial amount of read-only memory (ROM) for communications software.

Back in the mid-1980s, telecommunications (or “telecoms”) was the next big thing, and enthusiasm for getting a modem and dialling up some “online” service or other (like Prestel) was prevalent in the computing press. For businesses and institutions, there were some good arguments for adopting such technologies, but for individuals the supposed benefits were rather dulled by the considerable costs of acquiring the hardware, buying subscriptions, and the notoriously high telephone call rates of the era. Only the relatively wealthy or the dedicated few pursued this side of data communications.

The M2105 reportedly did some service in the healthcare sector before being repositioned for commercial applications. Along with its successor product, the Acorn Communicator, it enjoyed a somewhat longer lifespan in certain enterprises. For the standard Electron and its accompanying expansions, support for basic communications capabilities was evidently considered important enough to be incorporated into the software of the Plus 1 expansion unit, even though the Plus 1 did not provide any of the specific hardware capabilities for communication over a serial link or a telephone line.

It was this apparently superfluous software capability that I revisited when I started to think about getting files in and out of the emulator. When emulating an Electron with Plus 1, this serial-capable software is run by the emulator, just as it is by a real Electron. On a real system of this kind, a cartridge could be added that provides a serial port and the necessary accompanying circuitry, and the system would be able to drive that hardware. Indeed, such cartridges were produced decades ago. So, if I could replicate the functionality of a cartridge within the emulator, making some code that pretends to be a serial communications chip (or UART) that has been interfaced to the Electron, then I would in principle be able to set up a virtual serial connection between the emulated Electron and my modern host computer.

Emulated Expansions

Modifying Elkulator to add support for serial communications hardware was fairly straightforward, with only a few complications. Expansion hardware on the Electron is generally accessible via a range of memory addresses that actually signal peripherals as opposed to reading and writing memory. The software provided by the Plus 1 expansion unit is written to expect the serial chip to be accessible via a range of memory locations, with the serial chip accepting values sent to those locations and producing values from those locations on request. The “memory map” through which the chip is exposed in the Electron corresponds directly to the locations or registers in the serial chip – the SCN2681 dual asynchronous receiver/transmitter (DUART) – as described by its datasheet.

In principle, all that is needed is to replicate the functionality described by the datasheet. With this done, the software will drive the chip, the emulated chip will do what is needed, and the illusion will be complete. In practice, a certain level of experimentation is needed to fill in the gaps left by the datasheet and any lack of understanding on the part of the implementer. It did help that the Plus 1 software has been disassembled – some kind of source code regenerated from the binary – so that the details of its operation and its expectations of the serial chip’s operation can be established.

Moreover, it is possible to save a bit of effort by seeing which features of the chip have been left unused. However, some unused features can be provided with barely any extra effort: the software only drives one serial port, but the chip supports two in largely the same way, so we can keep support for two just in case there is a need in future for such capabilities. Maybe someone might make a real serial cartridge with two ports and want to adapt the existing software, and they could at least test that software under emulation before moving to real hardware.

It has to be mentioned that the Electron’s operating system, known as the Machine Operating System or MOS, is effectively extended by the software provided in the Plus 1 unit. Even the unexpanded machine provides the foundations for adding serial communications and printing capabilities in different ways, and the Plus 1 software merely plugs into that framework. A different kind of serial chip would be driven by different software but it would plug into the same framework. At no point does anyone have to replace the MOS with a patched version, which seems to be the kind of thing that happens with some microcomputers from the same era.

Ultimately, what all of this means is that having implemented the emulated serial hardware, useful things can already be done with it within the bare computing environment provided by the MOS. One can set the output stream to use the serial port and have all the text produced by the system and programs sent over the serial connection. One can select the serial port for the input stream and send text to the computer instead of using the keyboard. And printing over the serial connection is also possible by selecting the appropriate printer type using a built-in system command.

In Elkulator, I chose to expose the serial port via a socket connection, with the emulator binding to a Unix domain socket on start-up. I then wrote a simple Python program to monitor the socket, to show any data being sent from the emulator and to send any input from the terminal to the emulator. This permitted the emulated machine to be operated from a kind of remote console and for the emulated machine to be able to print to this console. At last, remote logins are possible on the Electron! Of course, such connectivity was contemplated and incorporated from the earliest days of these products.

Filing Options

If the goal of all of this had been to facilitate transfers to and from the emulated machine, this might have been enough, but a simple serial connection is not especially convenient to use. Although a method of squirting a file into the serial link at the Electron could be made convenient for the host computer, at the other end one has to have a program to do something with that file. And once the data has arrived, would it not be most convenient to be able to save that data as a file? We just end up right back where we started: having some data inside the Electron and nowhere to put it! Of course, we could enable disk emulation and store a file on a virtual disk, but then it might just have been easier to make disk image handling outside the emulator more convenient instead.

It seemed to me that the most elegant solution would be to make the serial link act as the means through which the Electron accesses files. That instead of doing ad-hoc transfers of data, such data would be transferred as part of operations that are deliberately accessing files. Such ambitions are not unrealistic, and here I could draw on my experience with the platform, having acquired the Acorn Electron Advanced User Guide many, many years ago, in which there are details of implementing filing system ROMs. Again, the operating system had been designed to be extended in order to cover future needs, and this was one of them.

In fact, I had not been the only one to consider a serial filing system, and I had been somewhat aware of another project to make software available via a serial link to the BBC Micro. That project had been motivated by the desire to be able to get software onto that computer where no storage devices were otherwise available, even performing some ingenious tricks to transfer the filing system software to the machine and to have that software operate from RAM. It might have been tempting merely to use this existing software with my emulated serial port, to get it working, and then to get back to trying out applications, loading and saving, and to consider my work done. But I had other ideas in mind…

I was recently perusing the Retro Computing Forum when I stumbled across a mention of Collapse OS. If your anxiety levels have not already been maxed out during the last few years of climate breakdown, psychological warfare, pandemic, and actual warmongering, accompanied by supply chain breakdowns, initially in technology and exacerbated by overconsumption and spivcoin, now also in commodities and exacerbated by many of those other factors (particularly the warmongering), then perhaps focusing on societal and civilisational collapse isn’t going to improve your mood or your outlook. Unusually, then, after my last, rather negative post on such topics, may I be the one to introduce some constructive input and perhaps even some slight optimism?

If I understand the motivations behind Collapse OS correctly, it is meant to provide a modest computing environment that can work on well-understood, commonplace, easily repaired and readily sourced hardware, with the software providing the environment itself being maintainable on the target hardware, as opposed to being cross-built on more powerful hardware and then deployed to simpler, less capable hardware. The envisaged scenario for its adoption is a world where powerful new hardware is no longer produced or readily available and where people must scavenge and “make do” with the hardware already produced. Although civilisation may have brought about its own collapse, the consolation is that so much hardware will have been strewn across the planet for a variety of purposes that even after semiconductor fabrication and sophisticated manufacturing have ceased, there will remain a bounty of hardware usable for people’s computational needs (whatever they may be).

I am not one to try and predict the future, and I don’t really want to imagine it as being along the same lines as the plot for one of Kevin Costner’s less successful movies, either, but I feel that Collapse OS and its peers, in considering various dystopian scenarios and strategies to mitigate their impacts, may actually offer more than just a hopefully sufficient kind of preparedness for a depressing future. In that future, without super-fast Internet, dopamine-fired social media, lifelike gaming, and streaming video services with huge catalogues of content available on demand, everyone has to accept that far less technology will be available to them: they get no choice in the matter. Investigating how they might manage is at the very least an interesting thought experiment. But we would be foolish to consider such matters as purely part of a possible future and not instructive in other ways.

An Overlap of Interests

As readers of my previous articles will be aware, I have something of an interest in older computers, open source hardware, and sustainable computing. Older computers lend themselves to analysis and enhancement even by individuals with modest capabilities and tools because they employ technologies that may have been regarded as “miniaturised” when they were new, but they were still amenable to manual assembly and repair. Similarly, open source hardware has grown to a broad phenomenon because the means to make computing systems and accessories has now become more accessible to individuals, as opposed to being the preserve of large and well-resourced businesses. Where these activities experience challenges, it is typically in the areas that have not yet become quite as democratised, such as semiconductor fabrication at the large-scale integration level, along with the development and manufacture of more advanced technology, such as components and devices that would be competitive with off-the-shelf commercial products.

Some of the angst around open source hardware concerns the lack of investment it receives from those who would benefit from it, but much of that investment would largely be concerned with establishing an ability to maintain some kind of parity with modern, proprietary hardware. Ignoring such performance-led requirements and focusing on simpler hardware projects, as many people already do, brings us a lot closer to retrocomputing and a lot closer to the constrained hardware scenario envisaged by Collapse OS. My own experiments with PIC32-based microcontrollers are not too far removed from this, and it would not be inconceivable to run a simple environment in the 64K of RAM and 256K of flash memory of the PIC32MX270, this being much more generous than many microcomputers and games consoles of the 1980s.

Although I relied on cross-compilation to build the programs that would run on the minimal hardware of the PIC32 microcontroller, Collapse OS emphasises self-hosting: that it is possible to build the software within the running software itself. After all, how sustainable would a frugal computing environment be if it needed a much more powerful development system to fix and improve it? For Collapse OS, such self-hosting is enabled by the use of the Forth programming language, as explained by the rationale for switching to Forth from a system implemented in assembly language. Such use of Forth is not particularly unusual: its frugal demands were prized in the microcomputer era and earlier, with its creator Charles Moore describing the characteristics of a computer designed to run Forth as needing around 8K of RAM and 8K of ROM, this providing a complete interactive system.

(If you are interested in self-hosting and bootstrapping, one place to start might be the bootstrapping wiki.)

For a short while, Forth was perhaps even thought to be the hot new thing in some circles within computing. One fairly famous example was the Jupiter Ace microcomputer, developed by former Sinclair Research designers, offering a machine that followed on fairly closely from Sinclair’s rudimentary ZX81. But in a high-minded way one might have expected from the Sinclair stable and the Cambridge scene, it offered Forth as its built-in language in response to all the other microcomputers offering “unstructured” BASIC dialects. Worthy as such goals might have been, the introduction of a machine with outdated hardware specifications condemned it in its target market as a home computer, with it offering primitive black-and-white display output against competitors offering multi-colour graphics, and offering limited amounts of memory as competitors launched with far more fitted as standard. Interestingly, the Z80 processor at the heart of the Ace was the primary target of Collapse OS, and one might wonder if the latter might actually be portable to the former, which would be an interesting project if any hardware collector wants to give it a try!

Other Forth-based computers were delivered such as the Canon Cat: an unusual “information appliance” that might have formed the basis of Apple’s Macintosh had that project not been diverted towards following up on the Apple Lisa. Dedicated Forth processors were even delivered, as anticipated already by Moore back in 1980, reminiscent of the Lisp machine era. However, one hardware-related legacy of Forth is that of the Open Firmware standard where a Forth environment provides an interactive command-line interface to a system’s bootloader. Collapse OS fits in pretty well with that kind of application of Forth. Curiously, someone did contact me when I first wrote about my PIC32 experiments, this person maintaining their own microcontroller Forth implementation, and in the context of this article I have re-established contact because I never managed to properly follow up on the matter.

Changing the Context

According to a broad interpretation of the Collapse OS hardware criteria, the PIC32MX270 would actually not be a bad choice. Like the AVR microcontrollers and the microprocessors of the 1980s, PIC32MX microcontrollers are available in convenient dual in-line packages, but unlike those older microprocessors they also offer the 32-bit MIPS architecture that is nicer to program than the awkward instruction sets of the likes of the Z80 and 6502, no matter how much nostalgia colours people’s preferences. However, instead of focusing on hardware suitability in a resource-constrained future, I want to consider the messages of simplicity and sustainability that underpin the Collapse OS initiative and might be relevant to the way we practise computing today.

When getting a PIC32 microcontroller to produce a video signal, part of the motivation was just to see how straightforward it might be to make a simple “single chip” microcomputer. Like many microcomputers back in the 1980s, it became tempting to consider how it might be used to deliver graphical demonstrations and games, but I also wondered what kind of role such a system might have in today’s world. Similar projects, including the first versions of the Maximite have emphasised such things as well, along with interfacing and educational applications (such as learning BASIC). Indeed, many low-end microcontroller-based computers attempt to recreate and to emphasise the sparse interfaces of 1980s microcomputers as a distraction-free experience for learning and teaching.

Eliminating distractions is a worthy goal, whether those distractions are things that we can conveniently seek out when our attention wanders, such as all our favourite, readily accessible Internet content, or whether they come in the form of the notifications that plague “modern” user interfaces. Another is simply reducing the level of consumption involved in our computational activities: civilisational collapse would certainly impose severe limits on that kind of consumption, but it would seem foolish to acknowledge that and then continue on the same path of ever-increasing consumption that also increasingly fails to deliver significant improvements in the user experience. When desktop applications, mobile “apps”, and Web sites frequently offer sluggish and yet overly-simplistic interfaces that are more infuriating than anything else, it might be wise to audit our progress and reconsider how we do certain things.

Human nature has us constantly exploring the boundaries of what is possible with technology, but some things which captivate people at any given point on the journey of technological progress may turn out to be distracting diversions from the route ultimately taken. In my trawl of microcomputing history over the last couple of years, I was reminded of an absurd but illustrative example of how certain technological exercises seem to become the all-consuming focus of several developers, almost being developed for the sake of it, before the fad in question flames out and everybody moves on. That example concerned “morphing” software, inspired by visual effects from movies such as Terminator 2, but operating on a simpler, less convincing level.

Suddenly, such effects were all over the television and for a few months in late 1993, everyone was supposedly interested in making the likeness of one famous person slowly change into the likeness of another, never mind that it really required a good library of images, this being somewhat before widespread digital imaging and widespread image availability. Fast-forward a few years, and it all seemed like a crazy mass delusion best never spoken of again. We might want to review our own time’s obsessions with performative animations and effects, along with the peculiarities of touch-based interfaces, the assumption of pervasive and fast connectivity, and how these drive hardware consumption and obsolescence.

Once again, some of this comes back to asking how people managed to do things in earlier times and why things sometimes seem so complicated now. Thinking back to the 1980s era of microcomputing, my favourite 8-bit computer of those times was the Acorn Electron, this being the one I had back then, and it was certainly possible to equip it to do word processing to a certain level. Acorn even pitched an expanded version as a messaging terminal for British Telecom, although I personally think that they could have made more of such opportunities, especially given the machine’s 80-column text capabilities being made available at such a low price. The user experience would not exactly be appealing by today’s standards, but then nor would that of Collapse OS, either.

When I got my PIC32 experiment working reasonably, I asked myself if it would be sufficient for tasks like simple messaging and writing articles like this. The answer, assuming that I would enhance that effort to use a USB keyboard and external storage, is probably the same as whether anyone might use a Maximite for such applications: it might not be as comfortable as on a modern system but it would be possible in some way. Given the tricks I used, certain things would actually be regressions from the Electron, such as the display resolution. Conversely, the performance of a 48MHz MIPS-based processor is obviously going to be superior to a 2MHz 6502, even when having to generate the video signal, thus allowing for some potential in other areas.

Reversing Technological Escalation

Using low-specification hardware for various applications today, considering even the PIC32 as low-spec and ignoring the microcomputers of the past, would also need us to pare back the demands that such applications have managed to accumulate over the years. As more powerful, higher-performance hardware has become available, software, specifications and standards have opportunistically grown to take advantage of that extra power, leaving many people bewildered by the result: their new computer being just as slow as their old one, for example.

Standards can be particularly vulnerable where entrenched interests drive hardware consumption whilst seeking to minimise the level of adaptation their own organisations will need to undertake in order to deliver solutions based on such standards. A severely constrained computing device may not have the capacity or performance to handle all the quirks of a “full fat” standard, but it might handle an essential core of that standard, ignoring all the edge cases and special treatment for certain companies’ products. Just as important, the developers of an implementation handling a standard also may not have the capacity or tenacity for a “full fat” standard, but they may do a reasonable job handling one that cuts out all the corporate cruft.

And beyond the technology needed to perform some kind of transaction as part of an activity, we might reconsider what is necessary to actually perform that activity. Here, we may consider the more blatant case of the average “modern” Web site or endpoint, where an activity may end up escalating and involving the performance of a number of transactions, many of which superfluous and, in the case of the pervasive cult of analytics, exploitative. What once may have been a simple Web form is often now an “experience” where the browser connects to dozens of sites, where all the scripts poll the client computer into oblivion, and where the functionality somehow doesn’t manage to work, anyway (as I recently experienced on one airline’s Web site).

Technologists and their employers may drive consumption, but so do their customers. Public institutions, utilities and other companies may lazily rely on easily procured products and services, these insisting (for “security” or “the best experience”) that only the latest devices or devices from named vendors may be used to gain access. Here, the opposite of standardisation occurs, where adherence to brand names dictates the provision of service, compounded by the upgrade treadmill familiar from desktop computing, bringing back memories of Microsoft and Intel ostensibly colluding to get people to replace their computer as often as possible.

A Broader Brush

We don’t need to go back to retrocomputing levels of technology to benefit from re-evaluating the prevalent technological habits of our era. I have previously discussed single-board computers like the MIPS Creator CI20 which, in comparison to contemporary boards from the Raspberry Pi series, was fairly competitive in terms of specification and performance (having twice the RAM of the Raspberry Pi Models A+, B and B+). Although hardly offering conventional desktop performance upon its introduction, the CI20 would have made a reasonable workstation in certain respects in earlier times: its 1GHz CPU and 1GB of RAM should certainly be plenty for many applications even now.

Sadly, starting up and using the main two desktop environments on the CI20 is an exercise in patience, and I recommend trying something like the MATE desktop environment just for something responsive. Using a Web browser like Firefox is a trial, and extensive site blocking is needed just to prevent the browser wanting to download things from all over the place, as it tries to do its bit in shoring up Google’s business model. My father was asking me the other day why a ten-year-old computer might be slow on a “modern” Web site but still perfectly adequate for watching video. I would love to hear the Firefox and Chrome developers, along with the “architects of the modern Web”, give any explanation for this that doesn’t sound like they are members of some kind of self-realisation cult.

If we can envisage a microcomputer, either a vintage one or a modern microcontroller-based one, performing useful computing activities, then we can most certainly envisage machines of ten or so years ago, even ones behind the performance curve, doing so as well. And by realising that, we might understand that we might even have the power to slow down the engineered obsolescence of computing hardware, bring usable hardware back into use, and since not everyone on the planet can afford the latest and greatest, we might even put usable hardware into the hands of more people who might benefit from it.

Naturally, this perspective is rather broader than one that only considers a future of hardship and scarcity, but hardship and scarcity are part of the present, just as they have always been part of the past. Applying many of the same concerns and countermeasures to today’s situation, albeit in less extreme forms, means that we have the power to mitigate today’s situation and, if we are optimistic, perhaps steer it away from becoming the extreme situation that the Collapse OS initiative seeks to prepare for.

Concrete Steps

I have, in the past, been accused of complaining about injustices too generally for my complaints to be taken seriously, never mind such injustices being blatant and increasingly obvious in our modern societies and expressed through the many crises of our times. So how might we seek to mitigate widespread hardware obsolescence and technology-driven overconsumption? Some suggestions in a concise list for those looking for actionable things:

• Develop, popularise and mandate lightweight formats, protocols and standards
• Encourage interoperability and tolerance for multiple user interfaces, clients and devices
• Insist on an unlimited “right to repair” for computing devices including the software
• Encourage long-term thinking in software and systems development

And now for some elucidation…

Mandatory Accessible Standards

This suggestion has already been described above, but where it would gain its power is in the idea of mandating that public institutions and businesses would be obliged to support lightweight formats, protocols and standards, and not simply as an implementation detail for their chosen “app”, like a REST endpoint might be, but actually as a formal mechanism providing service to those who would interact with those institutions. This would make the use of a broad range of different devices viable, and in the case of special-purpose devices for certain kinds of users, particularly those who would otherwise be handed a smartphone and told to “get with it”, it would offer a humane way of accessing services that is currently denied to them.

For simple dialogue-based interactions, existing formats such as JSON might even be sufficient as they are. I am reminded of a paper I read when putting together my degree thesis back in the 1990s, where the idea was that people would be able to run programs safely in their mail reader, with one example being that of submitting forms.

T-shirt ordering dialogues shown by Safe-Tcl running in a mail program, offering the recipient the chance to order some merchandise that might not be as popular now.

In that paper, most of the emphasis was on the safety of the execution environment as opposed to the way in which the transaction was to be encoded, but it is not implausible that one might have encoded the details of the transaction – the T-shirt size (with the recipient’s physical address presumably already being known to the sender) – in a serialised form of the programming language concerned (Safe-Tcl) as opposed to just dumping some unstructured text in the body of a mail. I would need to dig out my own thesis to see what ideas I had for serialised information. Certainly, such transactions even embellished with other details and choices and with explanatory information, prompts and questions do not require megabytes of HTML, CSS, JavaScript, images, videos and so on.

Interoperability and Device Choice

One thing that the Web was supposed to liberate us from was the insistence that to perform a particular task, we needed a particular application, and that particular application was only available on a particular platform. In the early days, HTML was deliberately simplistic in its display capabilities, and people had to put up with Web pages that looked very plain until things like font tags allowed people to go wild. With different factions stretching HTML in all sorts of directions, CSS was introduced to let people apply presentation attributes to documents, supposedly without polluting or corrupting the original HTML that would remain semantically pure. We all know how this turned out, particularly once the Web 2.0 crowd got going.

Back in the 1990s, I worked on an in-house application at my employer that used a document model inspired by SGML (as HTML had been), and the graphical user interface to the documents being exchanged initially offered a particular user interface paradigm when dealing with collections of data items, this being the one embraced by the Macintosh’s Finder when showing directory hierarchies in what we would now call a tree view. Unfortunately, users seemed to find expanding and hiding things by clicking on small triangles to be annoying, and so alternative presentation approaches were explored. Interestingly, the original paradigm would be familiar even now to those using generic XML editor software, but many people would accept that while such low-level editing capabilities are nice to have, higher-level representations of the data are usually much more preferable.

Such user preferences could quite easily be catered to through the availability of client software that works in the way they expect, rather than the providers of functionality or the operators of services trying to gauge what the latest fashions in user interfaces might be, as we have all seen when familiar Web sites change to mimic something one would expect to see on a smartphone, even with a large monitor on a desk with plenty of pixels to spare. With well-defined standards, if a client device or program were to see that it needed to allow a user to peruse a large collection of items or to choose a calendar date, it would defer to the conventions of that device or platform, giving the user the familiarity they expect.

This would also allow clients and devices with a wide range of capabilities to be used. The Web tried to deliver a reasonable text-only experience for a while, but most sites can hardly be considered usable in a textual browser these days. And although there is an “accessibility story” for the Web, it largely appears to involve retrofitting sites with semantic annotations to help users muddle through the verbose morass encoded in each page. Certainly, the Web of today does do one thing reasonably by mixing up structure and presentation: it can provide a means of specifying and navigating new kinds of data that might be unknown to the client, showing them something more than a text box. A decent way of extending the range of supported data types would be needed in any alternative, but it would need to spare everyone suddenly having scripts running all over the place.

Rights to Repair

The right to repair movement has traditionally been focused on physical repairs to commercial products, making sure that even if the manufacturer has abandoned a product and really wants you to buy something new from them, you can still choose to have the product repaired so that it can keep serving you well for some time to come. But if hardware remains capable enough to keep doing its job, and if we are able to slow down or stop the forces of enforced obsolescence, we also need to make sure that the software running on the hardware may also be repaired, maintained and updated. A right to repair very much applies to software.

Devotees of the cult of the smartphone, those who think that there is an “app” for everything, should really fall silent with shame. Not just for shoehorning every activity they can think of onto a device that is far from suitable for everyone, and not just for mandating commercial relationships with large multinational corporations for everyone, but also for the way that happily functioning smartphones have to be discarded because they run software that is too old and cannot be fixed or upgraded. Demanding the right to exercise the four freedoms of Free Software for our devices means that we get to decide when those devices are “too old” for what we want to use them for. If a device happens to be no longer usable for its original activity even after some Free Software repairs, we can repurpose it for something else, instead of having the vendor use those familiar security scare stories and pretending that they are acting in our best interests.

Long-Term Perspectives

If we are looking to preserve the viability of our computing devices by demanding interoperability to give them a chance to participate in the modern world and by demanding that they may be repaired, we also need to think about how the software we develop may itself remain viable, both in terms of the ability to run the software on available devices as well as the ability to keep maintaining, improving and repairing it. That potentially entails embracing unfashionable practices because “modern” practices do not exactly seem conducive to the kind of sustainable activities we have in mind.

I recently had the opportunity to contemplate the deployment of software in “virtual environments” containing entire software stacks, each of which running their own Web server program, that would receive their traffic from another Web server program running in the same virtual machine, all of this running in some cloud infrastructure. It was either that or using containers containing whole software distributions, these being deployed inside virtual machines containing their own software distributions. All because people like to use the latest and greatest stuff for everything, this stuff being constantly churned by fashionable development methodologies and downloaded needlessly over and over again from centralised Internet services run by monopolists.

Naturally, managing gigabytes of largely duplicated software is worlds, if not galaxies, away from the modest computing demands of things like Collapse OS, but it would be distasteful to anyone even a decade ago and shocking to anyone even a couple of decades ago. Unfashionable as it may seem now, software engineering courses once emphasised things like modularity and the need for formal interfaces between modules in systems. And a crucial benefit of separating out functionality into modules is to allow those modules to mature, do the job they were designed for, and to recede into the background and become something that can be relied upon and not need continual, intensive maintenance. There is almost nothing better than writing a library that one may use constantly but never need to touch again.

Thus, the idea that a precarious stack of precisely versioned software is required to deliver a solution is absurd, but it drives the attitude that established software distributions only deliver “old” software, and it drives the demand for wasteful container or virtual environment solutions whose advocates readily criticise traditional distributions whilst pilfering packages from them. Or as Docker users might all too easily say, “FROM debian:sid”. Part of the problem is that it is easy to rely on methods of mass consumption to solve problems with software – if something is broken, just update and see if it fixes it – but such attitudes permeate the entire development process, leading to continual instability and a software stack constantly in flux.

Dealing with a multitude of software requirements is certainly a challenging problem that established operating systems struggle to resolve convincingly, despite all the shoehorning of features into the Linux technology stack. Nevertheless, the topic of operating system design is rather outside the scope of this article. Closer to relevance is the matter of how people seem reluctant to pick a technology and stick with it, particularly in the realm of programming languages. Then again, I covered much of this before and fairly recently, too. Ultimately, we want to be establishing software stacks that people can readily acquaint themselves with decades down the line, without the modern-day caveats that “feature X changed in version Y” and that if you were not there at the time, you have quite the job to do to catch up with that and everything else that went on, including migrations to a variety of source management tools and venues, maybe even completely new programming languages.

A Different Mindset

If anything, Collapse OS makes us consider a future beyond tomorrow, next week, next year, or a few years’ time. Even if the wheels do not start falling off the vehicle of human civilisation, there are still plenty of other things that can go away without much notice. Corporations like Apple and Google might stick around, whether that is good news or not, but it does not stop them from pulling the plug on products and services. Projects and organisations do not always keep going forever, not least because they are often led by people who cannot keep going forever, either.

There are ways we can mitigate these threats to sustainability and longevity, however. We can share our software through accessible channels without insisting that others use those monopolist-run centralised hosting services. We can document our software so that others have a chance of understanding what we were thinking when we wrote it. We can try and keep the requirements for our software modest and give people a chance to deploy it on modest hardware. And we might think about what kind of world we are leaving behind and whether it is better than the world we were born into.

Over the years, I have had a few things to say about technological change, churn, and the appearance of progress, a few of them touching on the evolution and development of the Python programming language. Some of my articles have probably seemed a bit outspoken, perhaps even unfair. It was somewhat reassuring, then, to encounter the reflections of a longstanding author of Python books and his use of rather stronger language than I think I ever used. It was also particularly reassuring because I apparently complain about things in far too general a way, not giving specific examples of phenomena for anything actionable to be done about them. So let us see whether we can emerge from the other end of this article in better shape than we are at this point in it.

Now, the longstanding author in question is none other than Mark Lutz whose books “Programming Python” and “Learning Python” must surely have been bestsellers for their publisher over the years. As someone who has, for many years, been teaching Python to a broad audience of newcomers to the language and to programming in general, his views overlap with mine about how Python has become increasingly incoherent and overly complicated, as its creators or stewards pursue some kind of agenda of supposed improvement without properly taking into account the needs of the broadest reaches of its user community. Instead, as with numerous Free Software projects, an unscrutable “vision” is used to impose change based on aesthetics and contemporary fashions, unrooted in functional need, by self-appointed authorities who often lack an awareness or understanding of historical precedent or genuine user need.

Such assertions are perhaps less kind to Python’s own developers than they should be. Those choosing to shoehorn new features into Python arguably have more sense of precedent than, say, the average desktop environment developer imitating Apple in what could uncharitably be described as an ongoing veiled audition for a job in Cupertino. Nevertheless, I feel that language developers would be rather more conservative if they only considered what teaching their language to newcomers entails or what effect their changes have on the people who have written code in their language. Am I being unfair? Let us read what Mr Lutz has to say on the matter:

The real problem with Python, of course, is that its evolution is driven by narcissism, not user feedback. That inevitably makes your programs beholden to ever-shifting whims and ever-hungry egos. Such dependencies might have been laughable in the past. In the age of Facebook, unfortunately, this paradigm permeates Python, open source, and the computer field. In fact, it extends well beyond all three; narcissism is a sign of our times.

You won’t find a shortage of similar sentiments on his running commentary of Python releases. Let us, then, take a look at some experiences and try to review such assertions. Maybe I am not being so unreasonable (or impractical) in my criticism after all!

Out in the Field

In a recent job, of which more might be written another time, Python was introduced to people more familiar with languages such as R (which comes across as a terrible language, but again, another time perhaps). It didn’t help that as part of that introduction, they were exposed to things like this:

    def method(self, arg: Dict[Something, SomethingElse]):
        return arg.items()

When newcomers are already having to digest new syntax, new concepts (classes and objects!), and why there is a “self” parameter, unnecessary ornamentation such as the type annotations included in the above, only increases the cognitive burden. It also doesn’t help to then say, “Oh, the type declarations are optional and Python doesn’t really check them, anyway!” What is the student supposed to do with that information? Many years ago now, Java was mocked for confronting its newcomers with boilerplate like this classic:

    public static void main(String[] args)

But exposing things that the student is then directed to ignore is simply doing precisely the same thing for which Java was criticised. Of course, in Python, the above method could simply have been written as follows:

    def method(self, arg):
        return arg.items()

Indeed, for the above method to be valid in the broadest sense, the only constraint on the nature of the “arg” parameter is that it offer an attribute called “items” that can be called with no arguments. By prescriptively imposing a limitation on “arg” as was done above, insisting that it be a dictionary, the method becomes less general and less usable. Moreover, the nature of Python itself is neglected or mischaracterised: the student might believe that only a certain type would be acceptable, just as one might suggest that the author of that code also fails to see that a range of different, conformant kinds of objects could be used with the method. Such practices discourage or conceal polymorphism and generic functionality at a point when the beginner’s mind should be opened to them.

As Mr Lutz puts such things in the context of a different feature introduced in Python 3.5:

To put that another way: unless you’re willing to try explaining a new feature to people learning the language, you just shouldn’t do it.

The tragedy is that Python in its essential form is a fairly intuitive and readable language. But as he also says in the specific context of type annotations:

Thrashing (and rudeness) aside, the larger problem with this proposal’s extensions is that many programmers will code them—either in imitation of other languages they already know, or in a misguided effort to prove that they are more clever than others. It happens. Over time, type declarations will start appearing commonly in examples on the web, and in Python’s own standard library. This has the effect of making a supposedly optional feature a mandatory topic for every Python programmer.

And I can certainly say from observation that in various professional cultures, including academia where my own recent observations were made, there is a persistent phenomenon where people demonstrate “best practice” to show that they as a software development practitioner (or, indeed, a practitioner of anything else related to the career in question) are aware of the latest developments, are able to communicate them to their less well-informed colleagues, and are presumably the ones who should be foremost in anyone’s consideration for any future hiring round or promotion. Unfortunately, this enthusiasm is not always tempered by considered reflection, either on the nature of the supposed innovation itself, or on the consequences its proliferation will have.

Perversely, such enthusiasm, provoked by the continual hustle for funding, positions, publications and reputation, risks causing a trail of broken programs, and yet at the same time, much is made of the need for software development to be done “properly” in academia, that people do research that is reproducible and whose computational elements are repeatable. It doesn’t help that those ambitions must also be squared with other apparent needs such as offering tools and services to others. And the need to offer such things in a robust and secure fashion sometimes has to coexist with the need to offer them in a convenient form, where appropriate. Taking all of these things into consideration is quite the headache.

A Positive Legacy

Amusingly, some have come to realise that Python’s best hope for reproducible research is precisely the thing that Python’s core developers have abandoned – Python 2.7 – and precisely because they have abandoned it. In an article about reproducing old, published results, albeit of a rather less than scientific nature, Nicholas Rougier sought to bring an old program back to life, aiming to find a way of obtaining or recovering the program’s sources, constructing an executable form of the program, and deploying and running that program on a suitable system. To run his old program, written for the Apple IIe microcomputer in Applesoft BASIC, required the use of emulators and, for complete authenticity, modern hardware expansions to transfer the software to floppy disks to run on an original Apple IIe machine.

And yet, the ability to revive and deploy a program developed 32 years earlier was possible thanks to the Apple machine’s status as a mature, well-understood platform with an enthusiastic community developing new projects and products. These initiatives were only able to offer such extensive support for a range of different “retrocomputing” activities because the platform has for a long time effectively been “frozen”. Contrasting such a static target with rapidly evolving modern programming languages and environments, Rougier concluded that “an advanced programming language that is guaranteed not to evolve anymore” would actually be a benefit for reproducible science, that few people use many of the new features of Python 3, and that Python 2.7 could equally be such a “highly fertile ground for development” that the proprietary Applesoft BASIC had proven to be for a whole community of developers and users.

Naturally, no language designer ever wants to be told that their work is finished. Lutz asserts that “a bloated system that is in a perpetual state of change will eventually be of more interest to its changers than its prospective users”, which is provocative but also rings true. CPython (the implementation of Python in the C programming language) has always had various technical deficiencies – the lack of proper multithreading, for instance – but its developers who also happen to be the language designers seem to prefer tweaking the language instead. Other languages have gained in popularity at Python’s expense by seeking to address such deficiencies and to meet the frustrated expectations of Python developers. Or as Lutz notes:

While Python developers were busy playing in their sandbox, web browsers mandated JavaScript, Android mandated Java, and iOS became so proprietary and closed that it holds almost no interest to generalist developers.

In parts of academia familiar with Python, languages like Rust and Julia are now name-dropped, although I doubt that many of those doing the name-dropping realise what they are in for if they decide to write everything in Rust. Meanwhile, Python 2 code is still used, against a backdrop of insistent but often ignored requests from systems administrators for people to migrate code to Python 3 so that newer operating system distributions can be deployed. In other sectors, such migration is meant to be factored into the cost of doing business, but in places like academia where software maintenance generally doesn’t get funding, no amount of shaming or passive-aggressive coercion is magically going to get many programs updated at all.

Of course, we could advocate that everybody simply run their old software in virtual machines or containers, just as was possible with that Applesoft BASIC program from over thirty years ago. Indeed, containerisation is the hot thing in places like academia just as it undoubtedly is elsewhere. But unlike the Apple II community who will hopefully stick with what they know, I have my doubts that all those technological lubricants marketed under the buzzword “containers!” will still be delivering the desired performance decades from now. As people jump from yesterday’s hot solution to today’s and on to tomorrow’s (Docker, with or without root, to Singularity/Apptainer, and on to whatever else we have somehow deserved), just the confusion around the tooling will be enough to make the whole exercise something of an ordeal.

A Detour to the Past

Over the last couple of years, I have been increasingly interested in looking back over the course of the last few decades, back to the time when I was first introduced to microcomputers, and even back beyond that to the age of mainframes when IBM reigned supreme and the likes of ICL sought to defend their niche and to remain competitive, or even relevant, as the industry shifted beneath them. Obviously, I was not in a position to fully digest the state of the industry as a schoolchild fascinated with the idea that a computer could seemingly take over a television set and show text and graphics on the screen, and I was certainly not “taking” all the necessary computing publications to build up a sophisticated overview, either.

But these days, many publications from decades past – magazines, newspapers, academic and corporate journals – are available from sites like the Internet Archive, and it becomes possible to sample the sentiments and mood of the times, frustrations about the state of then-current, affordable technology, expectations of products to come, and so on. Those of us who grew up in the microcomputing era saw an obvious progression in computing technologies: faster processors, more memory, better graphics, more and faster storage, more sophisticated user interfaces, increased reliability, better development tools, and so on. Technologies such as Unix were “the future”, labelled as impending to the point of often being ridiculed as too expensive, too demanding or too complicated, perhaps never to see the limelight after all. People were just impatient: we got there in the end.

While all of that was going on, other trends were afoot at the lowest levels of computing. Computer instruction set architectures had become more complicated as the capabilities they offered had expanded. Although such complexity, broadly categorised using labels such as CISC, had been seen as necessary or at least desirable to be able to offer system implementers a set of convenient tools to more readily accomplish their work, the burden of delivering such complexity risked making products unreliable, costly and late. For example, the National Semiconductor 32016 processor, seeking to muscle in on the territory of Digital Equipment Corporation and its VAX line of computers, suffered delays in getting to market and performance deficiencies that impaired its competitiveness.

Although capable and in some respects elegant, it turned out that these kinds of processing architectures were not necessarily delivering what was actually important, either in terms of raw performance for end-users or in terms of convenience for developers. Realisations were had that some of the complexity was superfluous, that programmers did not use certain instructions often or at all, and that a flawed understanding of programmers’ needs had led to the retention of functionality that did not need to be inscribed in silicon with all the associated costs and risks that this would entail. Instead, simpler, more orthogonal architectures could be delivered that offered instructions that programmers or, crucially, their compilers would actually use. The idea of RISC was thereby born.

As the concept of RISC took off, pursued by the likes of IBM, UCB and Sun, Stanford University and MIPS, Acorn (and subsequently ARM), HP, and even Digital, Intel and Motorola, amongst others, the concept of the workstation became more fully realised. It may have been claimed by some commentator or other that “the personal computer killed the workstation” or words to that effect, but in fact, the personal computer effectively became the workstation during the course of the 1990s and early years of the twenty-first century, albeit somewhat delayed by Microsoft’s sluggish delivery of appropriately sophisticated operating systems throughout its largely captive audience.

For a few people in the 1980s, the workstation vision was the dream: the realisation of their expectations for what a computer should do. Although expectations should always be updated to take new circumstances and developments into account, it is increasingly difficult to see the same rate of progress in this century’s decades that we saw in the final decades of the last century, at least in terms of general usability, stability and the emergence of new and useful computational capabilities. Some might well argue that graphics and video processing or networked computing have progressed immeasurably, these certainly having delivered benefits for visualisation, gaming, communications and the provision of online infrastructure, but in other regards, we seem stuck with something very familiar to that of twenty years ago but with increasingly disillusioned developers and disempowered users.

What we might take away from this historical diversion is that sometimes a focus on the essentials, on simplicity, and on the features that genuinely matter make more of a difference than just pressing ahead with increasingly esoteric and baroque functionality that benefits few and yet brings its own set of risks and costs. And we should recognise that progress is largely acknowledged only when it delivers perceptable benefits. In terms of delivering a computer language and environment, this may necessarily entail emphasising the stability and simplicity of the language, focusing instead on remedying the deficiencies of the underlying language technology to give users the kind of progress they might actually welcome.

A Dark Currency

Mark Lutz had intended to stop commentating on newer versions of Python, reflecting on the forces at work that makes Python what it now is:

In the end, the convolution of Python was not a technical story. It was a sociological story, and a human story. If you create a work with qualities positive enough to make it popular, but also encourage it to be changed for a reward paid entirely in the dark currency of ego points, time will inevitably erode the very qualities which made the work popular originally. There’s no known name for this law, but it happens nonetheless, and not just in Python. In fact, it’s the very definition of open source, whose paradigm of reckless change now permeates the computing world.

I also don’t know of a name for such a law of human behaviour, and yet I have surely mentioned such behavioural phenomena previously myself: the need to hustle, demonstrate expertise, audition for some potential job offer, demonstrate generosity through volunteering. In some respects, the cultivation of “open source” as a pragmatic way of writing software collaboratively, marginalising Free Software principles and encouraging some kind of individualistic gift culture coupled to permissive licensing, is responsible for certain traits of what Python has become. But although a work that is intrinsically Free Software in nature may facilitate chaotic, haphazard, antisocial, selfish, and many other negative characteristics in the evolution of that work, it is the social and economic environment around the work that actually promotes those characteristics.

When reflecting on the past, particularly during periods when capabilities were being built up, we can start to appreciate the values that might have been more appreciated at that time than they are now. Python originated at a time when computers in widespread use were becoming capable enough to offer such a higher-level language, one that could offer increased convenience over various systems programming languages whilst building on top of the foundations established by those languages. With considerable effort having been invested in such foundations, a mindset seemed to persist, at least in places, that such foundations might be enduring and be good for a long time.

An interesting example of such attitudes arose at a lower level with the development of the Alpha instruction set architecture. Digital, having responded ineffectively to its competitive threats, embraced the RISC philosophy and eventually delivered a processor range that could be used to support its existing product line-up, emphasising performance and longevity through a “15- to 25-year design horizon” that attempted to foresee the requirements of future systems. Sadly, Digital made some poor strategic decisions, some arguably due to Microsoft’s increasing influence over the company’s strategy, and after a parade of acquisitions, Alpha fell under the control of HP who sacrificed it, along with its own RISC architecture, to commit to Intel’s dead-end Itanium architecture. I suppose this illustrates that the chaos of “open source” is not the only hazard threatening stability and design for longevity.

Such long or distant horizons demand that newer developments remain respectful to the endeavours that have made them possible. Such existing and ongoing endeavours may have their flaws, but recognising and improving those flaws is more constructive and arguably more productive than tearing everything down and demanding that everything be redone to accommodate an apparently new way of thinking. Sadly, we see a lot of the latter these days, but it goes beyond a lack of respect for precedent and achievement, reflecting broader tendencies in our increasingly stressed societies. One such tendency is that of destructive competition, the elimination of competitors, and the pursuit of monopoly. We might be used to seeing such things in the corporate sphere – the likes of Microsoft wanting to be the only ones who provide the software for your computer, no matter where you buy it – but people have a habit of imitating what they see, especially when the economic model for our societies increasingly promotes the hustle for work and the need to carve out a lucrative niche.

So, we now see pervasive attitudes such as the pursuit of the zero-sum game. Where the deficiencies of a technology lead its users to pursue alternatives, defensiveness in the form of utterances such as “no need to invent another language” arises. Never mind that the custodians of the deficient technology – in this case, Python, of course – happily and regularly offer promotional consideration to a company who openly tout their own language for mobile development. Somehow, the primacy of the Python language is a matter for its users to bear, whereas another rule applies amongst its custodians. That is another familiar characteristic of human behaviour, particularly where power and influence accumulates.

And so, we now see hostility towards anything being perceived as competition, even if it is merely an independent endeavour undertaken by someone wishing to satisfy their own needs. We see intolerance for other solutions, but we also see a number of other toxic behaviours on display: alpha-dogging, personality worship and the cultivation of celebrity. We see chest-puffing displays of butchness about Important Matters like “security”. And, of course, the attitude to what went before is the kind of approach that involves boiling the oceans so that it may be populated by precisely the right kind of fish. None of this builds on or complements what is already there, nor does it deliver a better experience for the end-user. No wonder people say that they are jealous of colleagues who are retiring.

All these things make it unappealing to share software or even ideas with others. Fortunately, if one does not care about making a splash, one can just get on with things that are personally interesting and ignore all the “negativity from ignorant, opinionated blowhards”. Although in today’s hustle culture, this means also foregoing the necessary attention that might prompt anyone to discover your efforts and pay you to do such work. On the actual topic that has furnished us with so many links to toxic behaviour, and on the matter of the venue where such behaviour is routine, I doubt that I would want my own language-related efforts announced in such a venue.

Then again, I seem to recall that I stopped participating in that particular venue after one discussion had a participant distorting public health observations by the likes of Hans Rosling to despicably indulge in poverty denial. Once again, broader social, economic and political influences weigh heavily on our industry and communities, with people exporting their own parochial or ignorant views globally, and in the process corrupting and undermining other people’s societies, oblivious to the misery it has already caused in their own. Against this backdrop, simple narcissism is perhaps something of a lesser concern.

At the End of the Tunnel

I suppose I promised some actionable observations at the start of the article, so what might they be?

Respect Users and Investments

First of all, software developers should be respectful towards the users of their software. Such users lend validation to that software, encourage others to use it, and they potentially make it possible for the developers to work on it for a living. Their use involves an investment that, if written off by the developers, is costly for everyone concerned.

And no, the users’ demands for that investment to be protected cannot be disregarded as “entitlement”, even if they paid nothing to acquire the software, at least if the developers are happy to enjoy all the other benefits of the software’s proliferation. As is often said, power and influence bring responsibility. Just as democratically elected politicians have a responsibility towards everyone they represent, regardless of whether those people voted for them or not, software developers have a duty of care towards all of their users, even if it is merely to step out of the way and to let the users take the software in its own direction without seeking to frustrate them as we saw when Python 2 was cast aside.

Respond to User Needs Constructively

Developers should also be responsive to genuine user needs. If you believe all the folklore about the “open source” way, it should have been precisely people’s own genuine needs that persuaded them to initiate their own projects in the first place. It is entirely possible that a project may start with one kind of emphasis and demand one kind of skills only to evolve towards another emphasis or to require other skills. With Python, much of the groundwork was laid in the 1990s, building an interpreter and formulating a capable language. But beyond that initial groundwork, the more pressing challenges lay outside the language design domain and went beyond the implementation of a simple interpreter.

Improved performance and concurrency, both increasingly expected by users, required the application of other skills that might not have been present in the project. And yet, the elaboration of the language continued, with the developers susceptible to persuasion by outsiders engaging in “alpha-dogging” or even insiders with an inferiority complex, being made to feel that the language was not complete or even adequate since it lacked features from the pet languages of those outsiders or of the popular language of the day. Development communities should welcome initiatives to improve their projects in ways that actually benefit the users, and they should resist the urge to muscle in on such initiatives by seeking to demonstrate that they have the necessary solutions when their track record would indicate otherwise. (Or worse still, by reframing user needs in terms of their own narrow agenda as if to say, “Here is what you are really asking for.” Another familiar trait of the “visionary” desktop developer.)

Respect Other Solutions

Developers and commentators more generally should accept and respect the existence of other technologies and solutions. Just because they have their own favourite solution does not de-legitimise something they have just been made aware of. Maybe it is simply not meant for them. After all, not everything that happens in this reality is part of a performance exclusively for any one person’s benefit, despite what some people appear to think. And the existence of other projects doing much the same thing is not necessarily “wasted effort”: another concept introduced from some cult of economics or other.

It is entirely possible to provide similar functionality in different ways, and the underlying implementations may lend those different projects different characteristics – portability, adaptability, and so on – even if the user sees largely the same result on their screen. Maybe we do want to encourage different efforts even for fundamental technologies or infrastructure, not because anyone likes to “waste effort”, but because it gives the systems we build a level of redundancy and resilience. And maybe some people just work better with certain other people. We should let them, as opposed to forcing them to fit in with tiresome, exploitative and time-wasting development cultures, to suffer rudeness and general abuse, simply to go along with an exercise that props up some form of corporate programme of minimal investment in the chosen solution of industry and various pundits.

Develop for the Long Term and for Stability

Developers should make things that are durable so that they may be usable for many years to come. Or they should at least expect that people may want to use them years or even decades from now. Just because something is old does not mean it is bad. Much of what we use today is based on technology that is old, with much of that technology effectively coming of age decades ago. We should be able to enjoy the increased performance of our computers, not have it consumed by inefficient software that drives the hardware and other software into obsolescence. Technological fads come and go (and come back again): people in the 1990s probably thought that virtual reality would be pervasive by now, but experience should permit us to reflect and to recognise that some things were (and maybe always will be) bad ideas and that we shouldn’t throw everything overboard to pander to them, only to regret doing so later.

We live in a world where rapid and uncomfortable change has been normalised, but where consumerism has been promoted as the remedy. Perhaps some old way of doing something mundane doesn’t work any more – buying something, interacting with public agencies, fulfilling obligations, even casting votes in some kinds of elections – perhaps because someone has decided that money can be saved (and, of course, soon wasted elsewhere) if it can be done “digitally” from now on. To keep up, you just need a smartphone, or a newer smartphone, with an “app”, or the new “app”, and a subscription to a service, and another one. And so on. All of that “works” for people as long as they have the necessarily interest, skills, time, and money to spend.

But as the last few years have shown, it doesn’t take much to disrupt these unsatisfactory and fragile arrangements. Nobody advocating fancy “digital” solutions evidently considered that people would not already have everything they need to access their amazing creations. And when, as they say, neither love nor money can get you the gadgets you need, it doesn’t even matter how well-off you are: suddenly you get a downgrade in experience to a level that, as a happy consumer, you probably didn’t even know still existed, even if it is still the reality for whole sections of our societies. We have all seen how narrow the margins are between everything apparently being “just fine” and there being an all-consuming crisis, both on a global level and, for many, on a personal level, too.

Recognise Responsibilities to Others

Change can be a positive thing if it carries everyone along and delivers actual progress. Meanwhile, there are those who embrace disruption as a form of change, claiming it to be a form of progress, too, but that form of change is destructive, harmful and exclusionary. It should not be a surprise that prominent advocates of a certain political movement advocate such disruptive change: for them, it doesn’t matter how many people suffer by the ruinous change they have inflicted on everyone as long as they are the ones to benefit; everyone else can wait fifty years or so to see some kind of consolation for the things taken from them, apparently.

As we deliver technology to others, we should not be the ones deepening any misery already experienced by imposing needless and costly change. We should be letting people catch up with the state of technology and allowing them to be comfortable with it. We should invest in long-term solutions that address people’s needs, and we should refuse to be shamed into playing the games of opportunists and profiteers who ridicule anything old or familiar in favour of what they happen to be promoting today. We should demand that people’s investments in hardware and software be protected, that they are not effectively coerced into constantly buying new things and seeing their their living standards diminished in other ways, with such consumption burdening our planet’s ecosystem and resources.

Just as we all experience that others have power over us, so we might recognise the power we have over other people. And just as we might expect others to consider our interests, so we might consider the interests of those who have to put up with our decisions. Maybe, in the end, all I am doing is asking for people to show some consideration for the experiences of other people, that their lives not be made any harder than they might already be. Is that really too much to ask? Is that so hard to understand?

It was interesting to see an apparently recent article “On the Sustainability of Free Software” published by the FSFE in the context of the Upcycling Android campaign. I have been advocating for sustainable Free Software for some time. When I wasn’t posting articles about my own Python-like language, electronics projects or microkernel-based system development, it seems that I was posting quite a few about sustainable software, hardware and technology like these:

• “On Not Liking Computers” (2016)
• “Sustainable Computing” (2018)
• “An Absence of Strategy?” (2019)

So, I hardly feel it necessary to go back through much of the same material again. Frustratingly, very little has improved over the years, it would seem: some new initiatives emerge, and such things always manage to excite some people, but the same old underlying causes of a general lack of sustainability remain, these including access to affordable, long-lasting and supportable hardware, and the properly funded development of Free Software and the hardware that would run it.

Of course, I wouldn’t even be bothered to write this if I didn’t feel that there might be some positive insights to share, and recent events have prompted me to do so. Hopefully, I can formulate them concisely and constructively in the following paragraphs.

The Open Hardware Crisis

Alright, so that was a provocative heading – hardly positive or constructive – and with so much hardware hacking (of the good kind) going on these days, it might be tempting to ask “what crisis?” Well, evidently, some people think there has been a crisis around the certification of hardware by the Free Software Foundation: that the Respects Your Freedom criteria don’t really help get hardware designed and made that would support (or be supported by) Free Software; that the criteria fail to recognise practical limitations with some elements of hardware, imposing rigid and wasteful measures that fail to enhance the rights of users and that might even impair the longevity and repairability of devices.

A lot of the hardware we rely on nowadays depends on features that cannot easily be supported by Free Software. The system I use has integrated graphics that require proprietary firmware from AMD to work in any half-decent way, as do many processors and interfacing chips, some not even working in any real way at all without it. Although FPGA technology has become more accessible and has invigorated the field of open hardware, there are still considerable challenges around the availability of Free Software toolchains for those kinds of devices. It is also not completely clear how programmable logic devices intersect with the realm of Free Software, either, as far as I can tell. Should people expect the corresponding source code and the means to generate a “bitstream” for the FPGAs in a system? I would think so, given appropriate licensing, but I am not familiar enough with the legal and regulatory constraints to allow me to expect it to be so.

The discussion around this may sound like a storm in a teacup, especially if you do not follow the appropriate organisations, figures, and their mailing lists (and I recommend saving your time and not bothering to, either), but it also sounds rather like tactics have prevailed over strategy. The fact is that without hardware being made to run Free Software, there isn’t really going to be much of a Free Software movement. So, instead of recommending increasingly ancient phones as “ethical gifts” or hoping that the latest crop of “Linux phones” will deliver a package that will not only run Linux but also prove to be usable as a phone, maybe a move away from consumerism is advised. Consumerism, of course, being the tendency to solve every problem by choosing the “best deal” the market happens to be offering today.

What the likes of the FSF need to do is to invest in hardware platforms that are amenable to the deployment of Free Software. This does not necessarily mean totally rejecting hardware if it has unfortunate characteristics such as proprietary firmware, particularly if there is no acceptable alternative, but the initiative has to start somewhere, however imperfect that somewhere might be. Much as we would all like to spend thousands of dollars on hardware that meets some kind of liberty threshold, most of us don’t have that kind of money and would accept some kind of compromise (just as we have to do most of the time, anyway), especially if we felt there was a chance to make up for any deficiencies later on. Trying to start from an impossible position means that there is no “here and now”, never mind “later on”.

Sadly, several attempts at open hardware platforms have struggled and could not be sustained. Some of these were criticised for having some supposed flaw or other that apparently made them unacceptable to the broader Free Software community, and yet they could have led to products that might have remedied such supposed flaws. Meanwhile, consumerist instincts had all the money chasing the latest projects, and yet here we are in 2022, barely any better off than we were in 2012. Had the FSF and company actually supported hardware projects that sought to support their own vision, as opposed to just casually endorsing projects and hoping they came good, we might be in better place by now.

The Ethical Software Crisis

One depressingly recurring theme is the lack of support given to Free Software developers and to Free Software development, even as billion-to-trillion-dollar corporations bank substantial profits on the back of Free Software. As soon as some random developer deletes his JavaScript package from some repository or other, or even switches it out for something that breaks the hyperactive “continuous integration” of hundreds or thousands of projects, everyone laments the fragility of “the system” and embeds that XKCD cartoon with the precarious structure that you’ve all presumably seen. Business-as-usual, however, is soon restored.

Many of the remedies for overworked, underpaid, burned-out developers have the same, familiar consumerist or neoliberal traits. Trait number one is, of course, to let a million projects bloom, carefully selecting the winners and discarding any that fail to keep up with the constant technological churn that also plagues our societies. Beyond that, things like bounties and donations are proposed, and funding platforms helpfully materialise to facilitate the transaction, themselves mostly funded not by bounties and donations (other than the cut of other people’s bounties and donations, of course) but by venture capital money. Because who would actually want to be going from one “gig” to the next when they could actually get a salary?

And it is revealing that organisations engaging in Free Software development tend to have an enthusiasm not for hiring actual developers but for positions like “community manager”, frequently with the responsibility for encouraging contributions from that desirable stream of eager volunteers. Alongside this, funding is sought from a variety of sources, some of whom being public institutions or progressive organisations perhaps sensing a growing crisis and feeling that something should be done. Other sources are perhaps more about doing “philanthropic work” on behalf of wealthy patrons, although I think I would think twice about taking money from people whose wealth has been built on the back of facilitating psychological warfare on entire populations, undermining public health policies and climate change mitigation, enabling inter-ethnic violence and hate generally, and providing a broadcasting platform for extremists. But as they say, beggars can’t be choosers, right?

It may, of course, be argued that big companies are big employers of Free Software developers. Certainly, lots of people seem to work on Free Software projects in companies like, ahem, Blue Hat. And some of that corporate development does deliver usable software, or at least it helps to mitigate the usability issues of the software being produced elsewhere, maybe in another part of the very same corporation. Large, stable organisations may well be the key to providing developers with secure incomes and the space to focus on producing high-quality, well-designed, long-lasting software. Then again, such organisations sometimes exhibit ethical deficiencies in their own collective activities by seeking to aggressively protect revenue streams by limiting interoperability, reduce costs through offshoring, assert patents against others, and impose needless technological change on their customers and the broader market simply to achieve a temporary competitive advantage.

Free Software organisations should be advocating for quality, stable employment for software developers. For too long, Free Software has been perceived as something for nothing where “everybody else” pays, even as organisations and individuals happily pay substantial sums for hardware and for proprietary software. Deferring to “the market” does nobody any good in the end: “the market” will only pay for what it absolutely has to, and businesses doing nicely selling solutions (who might claim that “the market” works for them and should be good enough for everyone) all too frequently rely on practically invisible infrastructure projects that they get for free. It arguably doesn’t matter if it would be public institutions, as opposed to businesses, ending up hiring people as long as they get decent contracts and aren’t at risk of all being laid off because some right-wing government wants to slash taxes for rich people, as tends to happen every few years.

And Free Software organisations should be advocating for ethical software development. Although the public mood in general may lag rather too far behind that of more informed commentary, the awareness many of us have of the substantial ethical concerns around various applications of computing – artificial intelligence, social media/manipulation platforms, surveillance, “cryptocurrencies”, and so on – requires us to uphold our principles, to recognise where our own principles fall short, and to embrace other causes that seek to safeguard the rights of individuals, the health of our societies, and the viability of our planet as our home.

The Accessible Infrastructure Crisis

Some of that ethical software development would also recognise the longevity we hope our societies may ultimately have. And yet we have every reason to worry about our societies becoming less equitable, less inclusive, and less accessible. The unquestioning adoption of technology-driven, consumerist solutions has led to many of the interactions us individuals have with institutions and providers of infrastructure being mediated by random companies who have inserted themselves into every kind of transaction they have perceived as highly profitable. Meanwhile, technologists have often embraced change through newer and newer technology for its own sake, not for the sake of actual progress or for making life easier.

While devices like smartphones have been liberating for many, providing capabilities that one could only have dreamed of only a few decades ago, they also introduce the risk of imposing relationships and restrictions on individuals to the point where those unable to acquire or use technological devices may find themselves excluded from public facilities, commercial transactions, and even voting in elections or other processes of participatory democracy. Such conditions may be the result of political ideology, the outsourcing and offshoring of supposedly non-essential activities, and the trimming back of the public sector, with any consequences, conflicts of interest, and even corrupt dealings being ignored or deliberately overlooked, dismissed as “nothing that would happen here”.

The risk to Free Software and to our societies is that we as individuals no longer collectively control our infrastructure through our representatives, nor do we control the means of interacting with it, the adoption of technology, or the pace such technology is introduced and obsoleted. When the suggestion to problems using supposedly public infrastructure is to “get a new phone” or “upgrade your computer”, we are actually being exploited by corporate interests and their facilitators. Anyone participating in such a cynical deployment of technology must, I suppose, reconcile their sense of a job well done with the sight of their fellow citizens being obstructed, impoverished or even denied their rights.

Although Free Software organisations have tried to popularise unencumbered sources of mobile software and to promote techniques and technologies to lengthen the lifespan of mobile devices, more fundamental measures are required to reverse the harmful course taken by many of our societies. Some of these measures are political or social, and some are technological. All of them are necessary.

We must reject the notion that progress is dependent on technological consumption. While computers and computing devices have managed to keep getting faster, despite warnings that such trends would meet their demise one way or another, improvements in their operational effectiveness in many regards have been limited. We may be able to view higher quality video today than we could ten years ago, and user interfaces may be pushing around many more pixels, but the results of our interactions are not necessarily more substantial. Yet, the ever-increasing demands of things like Web browsers means that systems become obsolete and are replaced with newer, faster systems to do exactly the same things in any qualitative sense. This wastefulness, burdening individuals with needless expenditure and burdening the environment with even more consumption, must stop.

We must demand interoperability and openness with regard to public infrastructure and even commercial platforms. It should be forbidden to insist that specific products be used to interact with public services and amenities or with commercial operators. The definition and adoption of genuinely open standards would be central to any such demands, and we would need to insist that such standards must encompass every aspect of such interactions and activities, without permitting companies to extend them in incompatible, proprietary ways that would deliberately undermine such initiatives.

We must insist that individuals never be under any obligation to commercial interests when interacting with public infrastructure: that their obligations are only to the public bodies concerned. And, similarly, we should insist that when dealing with companies, they may not also require us to enter into ongoing commercial relationships with other companies, purely as a condition of any transaction. It is unacceptable, for example, that individuals require such a relationship with a foreign technology company purely to gain access to essential services or to conduct purchases or similar transactions.

Ideas for Remedies

In conclusion, we need to care about technological freedoms – our choices of hardware and software, things like online privacy, and all that – but we also need to recognise and care about the social, economic and political conditions that threaten such freedoms. We can’t expect to set up a nice Free Software computing system and to use it forever when forces in society compel us to upgrade every few years. Nor can we expect people to make the hardware for such systems, let alone at an affordable price, when technological indulgence drives the sophistication of hardware to levels where investment in open hardware production is prohibitively costly. And we can’t expect to use our Free Software systems if consumerist and/or corrupt choices sacrifice interoperability and pander to entrenched commercial interests.

The vision here, if we can even call it that, is that we might embrace the “essential” nature of our computing needs and thus embrace hardware with adequate levels of sophistication that could, if everyone were honest with themselves, get the job done just fine. Years ago, people used to say how “Linux is great because it works on older systems”, but these days you apparently cannot even install some distributions with less than 1GB of RAM, and Blue Hat is apparently going to put all the bloat of a “modern” Web browser into its installer. And once we have installed our system, do we really need a video playing in the background of a Web page as we navigate a simple list of train times? Do we even need something as sophisticated as a Web browser for that at all?

Embracing mature, proven, reliable, well-understood hardware would help hardware designers to get their efforts right, and if hardware standards and modularity were adopted, there would still be the chance to introduce improvements and enhancements. Such hardware characteristics would also help with the software support: instead of rushing the long, difficult journey of introducing support for poorly documented components from unhelpful manufacturers eager to retire those components and to start making future products, the aim would be to support components with long commercial lifespans whose software support is well established and hopefully facilitated by the manufacturer. And with suitably standardised or modular hardware, creativity and refinement could be directed towards other aspects of the hardware which are often neglected or underestimated such as ergonomics and the other aspects of traditional product design.

With stable hardware, there might be more software options, too. Although many would propose “just putting Linux on it” for any given device, one need only consider the realm of smartphones to realise that such convenient answers are not necessarily the most obviously correct ones, particularly for certain definitions of “Linux”. Instead of choosing Linux because it probably supports the hardware, only to find that as much time is spent fixing that support and swimming against the currents of upstream development as would have been spent implementing that support elsewhere, other systems with more desirable properties could be considered and deployed. We might even encourage different systems to share functionality, instead of wrapping it up in a specific framework that resists portability. Such systems would also aspire to avoid the churn throughout the GNU-plus-Linux-plus-graphical-stack-of-the-day familiar to many of us, potentially allowing us to use familiar software over much longer periods than we have generally been allowed to before, retrocomputing platforms aside.

But to let all of this happen and to offer a viable foundation, we must also ensure that such systems can be used in the wider world. Otherwise, this would merely be an exercise in retrocomputing. Now, there is an argument that there are plenty of existing standards that might facilitate this vision, and perhaps going along with the famous saying about standards (the good thing being that there are so many to choose from), we might wish to avoid the topic of yet another widely-referenced XKCD cartoon by actually adopting some of them instead of creating more of them. That is not to say that we would necessarily want to go along with the full breadth of some standards, however. XML deliberately narrowed down SGML to be a more usable technology, despite its own reputation for complexity. Since some standards were probably “front-run” by companies wishing to elevate their own products, within which various proposed features were already implemented, thus forcing their competitors to play catch up, it is entirely possible that various features are superfluous or frivolous.

There have already been attempts to simplify the Web or to make a simpler Web-like platform, Gemini being one of them, and there are persuasive arguments that such technologies should be considered as separate from the traditional Web. After all, the best of intentions in delivering a simple, respectful experience can easily be undermined by enthusiasm for the latest frameworks and fashions, or by the insistence that less than respectful techniques and technologies – user surveillance, to take one example – be introduced to “help understand” or “better serve” users. A distinct technology might offer easy ways of resisting such temptations by simply failing to support them conveniently, but the greater risk is that it might not even get adopted significantly at all.

New standards might well be necessary, but revising and reforming existing ones might well be more productive, and there is merit in focusing standards on the essentials. After all, people used the Web for real work twenty years ago, too. And some would argue that today’s Web is just reimplementing the client-server paradigm but with JavaScript on the front end, grinding your CPU, with application-specific communications conducted between the browser and the server. Such communications will, for the most part, not be specified and be prone to changing and breaking, interoperability being the last thing on everybody’s mind. Formalising such communications, and adopting technologies more appropriate to each device and to each user, might actually be beneficial: instead of megabytes of JavaScript passing across the network and through the browser, the user would get to choose how they access such services, which programs they might use, rather than having “an experience” foisted upon them.

Such an approach would actually return us to something close to the original vision of the Web. But standards surely have to be seen as the basis of the Free Software we might hope to use, and as the primary vehicle for the persuasion of others. Public institutions and businesses care about reaching the biggest possible audience, and this has brought us to a rather familiar sight: the anointment of two viable players in a particular market and no others. Back in the 1990s, the two chosen ones in desktop computing were Microsoft and Apple, the latter kept afloat by the former so as to avoid being perceived as a de-facto monopoly and thereby avoiding being subject to proper regulation. Today, Apple and Google are the gatekeepers in mobile computing, with even Microsoft being an unwelcome complication.

Such organisations want to offer solutions that supposedly reach “the most users”, will happily commission “apps” for the big two players (and Microsoft, sometimes, because habits and favouritism die hard), and will probably shy away from suggesting other solutions, labelling them as confusing or unreliable, mostly because they just don’t want to care: their job is done, the boxes ticked, more effort gives no more reward. But standards offer the possibility of reaching every user, of meeting legal accessibility requirements, and potentially allowing such organisations to delegate the provision of solutions to their favourite entity: “the market”. Naturally, some kind of validation of standards compliance would probably be required, but this need not be overly restrictive nor the business of every last government department or company.

So, I suppose a combination of genuinely open standards facilitating Free Software and accessible public and private services, with users able to adopt and retain open and long-lasting hardware, might be a glimpse of some kind of vision. How people might make good enough money to be able to live decently is another question entirely, but then again, perhaps cultivating simpler, durable, sustainable infrastructure might create opportunities in the development of products that use it, allowing people to focus on improving those products, that infrastructure and the services they collectively deliver as opposed to chasing every last fad and fashion, running faster and faster and yet having the constant feeling of falling behind. As many people seem to experience in many other aspects of their lives.

Well, I hope the positivity was in there somewhere!

Recent discussions about the purpose and functioning of the FSFE have led me to consider the broader picture of what I would expect Free Software and its developers and advocates to seek to achieve in wider society. It was noted, as one might expect, that as a central component of its work the FSFE seeks to uphold the legal conditions for the use of Free Software by making sure that laws and regulations do not discriminate against Free Software licensing.

This indeed keeps the activities of Free Software developers and advocates viable in the face of selfish and anticompetitive resistance to the notions of collaboration and sharing we hold dear. Advocacy for these notions is also important to let people know what is possible with technology and to be familiar with our rich technological heritage. But it turns out that these things, although rather necessary, are not sufficient for Free Software to thrive.

Upholding End-User Freedoms

Much is rightfully made of the four software freedoms: to use, share, study and modify, and to propagate modified works. But it seems likely that the particular enumeration of these four freedoms was inspired (consciously or otherwise) by those famously stated by President Franklin D. Roosevelt in his 1941 “State of the Union” address.

Although some of Roosevelt’s freedoms are general enough to be applicable in any number of contexts (freedom of speech and freedom from want, for instance), others arguably operate on a specific level appropriate for the political discourse of the era. His freedom from fear might well be generalised to go beyond national aggression and to address the general fears and insecurities that people face in their own societies. Indeed, his freedom of worship might be incorporated into a freedom from persecution or freedom from prejudice, these latter things being specialised but logically consequent forms of a universal freedom from fear.

But what might end-users have to fear? The list is long indeed, but here we might as well make a start. They might fear surveillance, the invasion of their privacy and of being manipulated to their disadvantage, the theft of their data, their identity and their belongings, the loss of their access to technology, be that through vandalism, technological failure or obsolescence, or the needless introduction of inaccessible or unintuitive technology in the service of fad and fashion.

Using technology has always entailed encountering risks, and the four software freedoms are a way of mitigating those risks, but as technology has proliferated it would seem that additional freedoms, or additional ways of asserting these freedoms, are now required. Let us look at some areas where advocacy and policy work fail to reach all by themselves.

Cultivating Free Software Development

Advocating for decent laws and the fair treatment of Free Software is an essential part of organisations like the FSFE. But there also has to be Free Software out in the wider world to be treated fairly, and here we encounter another absent freedom. Proponents of the business-friendly interpretation of “open source” insist that Free Software happens all by itself, that somewhere someone will find the time to develop a solution that is ripe for wider application and commercialisation.

Of course, this neglects the personal experience of any person actually doing Free Software development. Even if people really are doing a lot of development work in their own time, playing out their roles precisely as cast in the “sharing economy” (which rather seems to be about wringing the last drops of productivity out of the lower tiers of the economy than anyone in the upper tiers actually participating in any “sharing”), it is rather likely that someone else is really paying their bills, maybe an employer who pays them to do something else during the day. These people squeeze their Free Software contributions in around the edges, hopefully not burning themselves out in the process.

Freedom from want, then, very much applies to Free Software development. For those who wish to do the right thing and even get paid for it, the task is to find a sympathetic employer. Some companies do indeed value Free Software enough to pay people to develop it, maybe because those companies provide such software themselves. Others may only pay people as a consequence of providing non-free software or services that neglect some of the other freedoms mentioned above. And still others may just treat Free Software as that magical resource that keeps on providing code for nothing.

Making sure that Free Software may actually be developed should be a priority for anyone seriously advocating Free Software adoption. Otherwise, it becomes a hypothetical quantity: something that could be used for serious things but might never actually be observed in such forms, easily dismissed as the work of “hobbyists” and not “professionals”, never mind that the same people can act in either capacity.

Unfortunately, there are no easy solutions to suggest for this need. It is fair to state that with a genuine “business case”, Free Software can get funded and find its audience, but that often entails a mixture of opportunism, the right connections, and an element of good fortune, as well as the mindset needed to hustle for business that many developers either do not have or do not wish to cultivate. It also assumes that all Free Software worth funding needs to have some kind of sales value, whereas much of the real value in Free Software is not to be found in things that deliver specific solutions: it is in the mundane infrastructure code that makes such solutions possible.

Respecting the User

Those of us who have persuaded others to use Free Software have not merely been doing so out of personal conviction that it is the ethically-correct thing for us and those others to use. There are often good practical reasons for using Free Software and asserting control over computing devices, even if it might make a little more work for us when things do not work as they should.

Maybe the risks of malware or experience of such unpleasantness modifies attitudes, combined with a realisation that not much help is actually to be had with supposedly familiar and convenient (and illegally bundled) proprietary software when such malevolence strikes. The very pragmatism that Free Software advocates supposedly do not have – at least if you ask an advocate for proprietary or permissively-licensed software – is, in fact, a powerful motivation for them to embrace Free Software in the first place. They realise that control is an illusion without the four software freedoms.

But the story cannot end with the user being able to theoretically exercise those freedoms. Maybe they do not have the time, skills or resources to do so. Maybe they cannot find someone to do so on their behalf, perhaps because nobody is able to make a living performing such services. And all the while, more software is written, deployed and pushed out globally. Anyone who has seen familiar user interfaces becoming distorted, degraded, unfamiliar, frustrating as time passes, shaped by some unfathomable agenda, knows that only a very well-resourced end-user would be able to swim against such an overpowering current.

To respect the user must involve going beyond acknowledging their software freedoms and also acknowledge their needs: for secure computing environments that remain familiar (even if that seems “boring”), that do not change abruptly (because someone had a brainwave in an airport lounge waiting to go to some “developer summit” or other), that allow sensible customisation that can be reconciled with upstream improvements (as opposed to imposing a “my way or the highway”, “delete your settings” ultimatum). It involves recognising their investment in the right thing, not telling them that they have to work harder, or to buy newer hardware, just to keep up.

And this also means that the Free Software movement has to provide answers beyond those concerning the nature of the software. Free Software licensing does not have enough to say about privacy and security, let alone how those things might be upheld in the real world. Yet such concerns do impact Free Software developers, meaning that some kinds of solutions do exist that might benefit a wider audience. Is it not time to deliver things like properly secure communications where people can trust the medium, verify who it is that sends them messages, ignore the time-wasters, opportunists and criminals, and instead focus on the interactions that are meaningful and important?

And is it not time that those with the knowledge and influence in the Free Software realm offered a more coherent path to achieving this, instead of all the many calls for people to “use encryption” only to be presented with a baffling array of options and a summary that combines “it’s complicated” with “you’re on your own”? To bring the users freedom from the kind of fear they experience through a lack of privacy and security? It requires the application of technical knowledge, certainly, but it also requires us to influence the way in which technology is being driven by forces in wider society.

Doing the Right Thing

Free Software, especially when labelled as “open source”, often has little to say about how the realm of technology should evolve. Indeed, Free Software has typically reacted to technological evolution, responding to the demands of various industries, but not making demands of its own. Of course, software in itself is generally but a mere instrument to achieve other things, and there are some who advocate a form of distinction between the specific ethics of software freedom and ethics applying elsewhere. For them, it seems to be acceptable to promote “open source” while undermining the rights and freedoms of others.

Our standards should be far higher than that! Although there is a logical argument to not combine other considerations with the clearly-stated four software freedoms, it should not stop us from complementing those freedoms with statements of our own values. Those who use or are subject to our software should be respected and their needs safeguarded. And we should seek to influence the development of technology to uphold our ideals.

Let us consider a mundane but useful example. The World Wide Web has had an enormous impact on society, providing people with access to information, knowledge, communication, services on a scale and with a convenience that would have been almost unimaginable only a few decades ago. In the beginning, it was slow (due to bandwidth limitations, even on academic networks), it was fairly primitive (compared to some kinds of desktop applications), and it lacked support for encryption and sophisticated interactions. More functionality was needed to make it more broadly useful for the kinds of things people wanted to see using it.

In the intervening years, a kind of “functional escalation” has turned it into something that is indeed powerful, with sophisticated document rendering and interaction mechanisms, perhaps achieving some of the ambitions of those who were there when the Web first gathered momentum. But it has caused a proliferation of needless complexity, as sites lazily call out to pull down megabytes of data to dress up significantly smaller amounts of content, as “trackers” and “analytics” are added to spy on the user, as absurd visual effects are employed (background videos, animated form fields), with the user’s computer now finding it difficult to bear the weight of all this bloat, and with that user struggling to minimise their exposure to privacy invasions and potential exploitation.

For many years it was a given that people would, even should, upgrade their computers regularly. It was almost phrased as a public duty by those who profited from driving technological progress in such a selfish fashion. As is frequently the case with technology, it is only after people have realised what can be made possible that they start to consider whether it should have been made possible at all. Do we really want to run something resembling an operating system in a Web browser? Is it likely that this will be efficient or secure? Can we trust the people who bring us these things, their visions, their competence?

The unquestioning proliferation of technology poses serious challenges to the well-being of individuals and the ecology of our planet. As people who have some control over the way technology is shaped and deployed, is it not our responsibility to make sure that its use is not damaging to its users, that it does not mandate destructive consumer practices, that people can enjoy the benefits – modest as they often are when the background videos and animated widgets are stripped away – without being under continuous threat of being left behind, isolated, excluded because their phone or computer is not this season’s model?

Strengthening Freedoms

In rather too many words, I have described some of the challenges that need to be confronted by Free Software advocates. We need to augment the four software freedoms with some freedoms or statements of our own. They might say that the software and the solutions we want to develop and to encourage should be…

• Sustainable to make: developers and their collaborators should be respected, their contributions fairly rewarded, their work acknowledged and sustained by those who use it
• Sustainable to choose and to use: adopters should have their role recognised, with their choices validated and rewarded through respectful maintenance and evolution of the software on which they have come to depend
• Encouraging of sustainable outcomes: the sustainability of the production and adoption of the software should encourage sustainability in other ways, promoting longevity, guarding against obsolescence, preventing needless and frivolous consumption, strengthening society and making it fairer and more resilient

It might be said that in order to have a fairer, kinder world there are no shortage of battles to be fought. With such sentiments, the discussion about what more might be done is usually brought to a swift conclusion. In this article, I hope to have made a case that what we can be doing is often not so different from what we are already doing.

And, of course, this brings us back to the awkward matter of why we, or the organisations we support, are not always so enthusiastic about these neglected areas of concern. Wouldn’t we all be better off by adding a dimension of sustainability to the freedoms we already recognise and enjoy?

On Planet Debian there seems to be quite a few regularly-posted articles summarising the work done by various people in Free Software over the month that has most recently passed. I thought it might be useful, personally at least, to review the different things I have been doing over the past year. The difference between this article and many of those others is that the work I describe is not commissioned or generally requested by others, instead relying mainly on my own motivation for it to happen. The rate of progress can vary somewhat as a result.

Learning KiCad

Over the years, I have been playing around with Arduino boards, sensors, displays and things of a similar nature. Although I try to avoid buying more things to play with, sometimes I manage to acquire interesting items regardless, and these aren’t always ready to use with the hardware I have. Last December, I decided to buy a selection of electronics-related items for interfacing and experimentation. Some of these items have yet to be deployed, but others were bought with the firm intention of putting different “spare” pieces of hardware to use, or at least to make them usable in future.

One thing that sits in this category of spare, potentially-usable hardware is a display circuit board that was once part of a desk telephone, featuring a two-line, bitmapped character display, driven by the Hitachi HD44780 LCD controller. It turns out that this hardware is so common and mundane that the Arduino libraries already support it, but the problem for me was being able to interface it to the Arduino. The display board uses a cable with a connector that needs a special kind of socket, and so some research is needed to discover the kind of socket needed and how this might be mounted on something else to break the connections out for use with the Arduino.

Fortunately, someone else had done all this research quite some time ago. They had even designed a breakout board to hold such a socket, making it available via the OSH Park board fabricating service. So, to make good on my plan, I ordered the mandatory minimum of three boards, also ordering some connectors from Mouser. When all of these different things arrived, I soldered the socket to the board along with some headers, wired up a circuit, wrote a program to use the LiquidCrystal Arduino library, and to my surprise it more or less worked straight away.

Breakout board for the Molex 52030 connector

Hitachi HD44780 LCD display boards driven by an Arduino

This satisfying experience led me to consider other boards that I might design and get made. Previously, I had only made a board for the Arduino using Fritzing and the Fritzing Fab service, and I had held off looking at other board design solutions, but this experience now encouraged me to look again. After some evaluation of the gEDA tools, I decided that I might as well give KiCad a try, given that it seems to be popular in certain “open source hardware” circles. And after a fair amount of effort familiarising myself with it, with a degree of frustration finding out how to do certain things (and also finding up-to-date documentation), I managed to design my own rather simple board: a breakout board for the Acorn Electron cartridge connector.

Acorn Electron cartridge breakout board (in 3D-printed case section)

In the back of my mind, I have vague plans to do other boards in future, but doing this kind of work can soak up a lot of time and be rather frustrating: you almost have to get into some modified mental state to work efficiently in KiCad. And it isn’t as if I don’t have other things to do. But at least I now know something about what this kind of work involves.

Retro and Embedded Hardware

With the above breakout board in hand, a series of experiments were conducted to see if I could interface various circuits to the Acorn Electron microcomputer. These mostly involved 7400-series logic chips (ICs, integrated circuits) and featured various logic gates and counters. Previously, I had re-purposed an existing ROM cartridge design to break out signals from the computer and make it access a single flash memory chip instead of two ROM chips.

With a dedicated prototyping solution, I was able to explore the implementation of that existing board, determine various aspects of the signal timings that remained rather unclear (despite being successfully handled by the existing board’s logic), and make it possible to consider a dedicated board for a flash memory cartridge. In fact, my brother, David, also wanting to get into board design, later adapted the prototyping cartridge to make such a board.

But this experimentation also encouraged me to tackle some other items in the electronics shipment: the PIC32 microcontrollers that I had acquired because they were MIPS-based chips, with somewhat more built-in RAM than the Atmel AVR-based chips used by the average Arduino, that could also be used on a breadboard. I hoped that my familiarity with the SoC (system-on-a-chip) in the Ben NanoNote – the Ingenic JZ4720 – might confer some benefits when writing low-level code for the PIC32.

PIC32 on breadboard with Arduino programming circuit (and some LEDs for diagnostic purposes)

I do not need to reproduce an account of my activities here, given that I wrote about the effort involved in getting started with the PIC32 earlier in the year, and subsequently described an unusual application of such a microcontroller that seemed to complement my retrocomputing interests. I have since tried to make that particular piece of work more robust, but deducing the actual behaviour of the hardware has been frustrating, the documentation can be vague when it needs to be accurate, and much of the community discussion is focused on proprietary products and specific software tools rather than techniques. Maybe this will finally push me towards investigating programmable logic solutions in the future.

Compiling a Python-like Language

As things actually happened, the above hardware activities were actually distractions from something I have been working on for a long time. But at this point in the article, this can be a diversion from all the things that seem to involve hardware or low-level software development. Many years ago, I started writing software in Python. Over the years since, alternative implementations of the Python language (the main implementation being CPython) have emerged and seen some use, some continuing to be developed to this day. But around fifteen years ago, it became a bit more common for people to consider whether Python could be compiled to something that runs more efficiently (and more quickly).

I followed some of these projects enthusiastically for a while. Starkiller promised compilation to C++ but never delivered any code for public consumption, although the associated academic thesis might have prompted the development of Shed Skin which does compile a particular style of Python program to C++ and is available as Free Software. Meanwhile, PyPy elevated to prominence the notion of writing a language and runtime library implementation in the language itself, previously seen with language technologies like Slang, used to implement Squeak/Smalltalk.

Although other projects have also emerged and evolved to attempt the compilation of Python to lower-level languages (Pyrex, Cython, Nuitka, and so on), my interests have largely focused on the analysis of programs so that we may learn about their structure and behaviour before we attempt to run them, this alongside any benefits that might be had in compiling them to something potentially faster to execute. But my interests have also broadened to consider the evolution of the Python language since the point fifteen years ago when I first started to think about the analysis and compilation of Python. The near-mythical Python 3000 became a real thing in the form of the Python 3 development branch, introducing incompatibilities with Python 2 and fragmenting the community writing software in Python.

With the risk of perfectly usable software becoming neglected, its use actively (and destructively) discouraged, it becomes relevant to consider how one might take control of one’s software tools for long-term stability, where tools might be good for decades of use instead of constantly changing their behaviour and obliging their users to constantly change their software. I expressed some of my thoughts about this earlier in the year having finally reached a point where I might be able to reflect on the matter.

So, the result of a great deal of work, informed by experiences and conversations over the years related to previous projects of my own and those of others, is a language and toolchain called Lichen. This language resembles Python in many ways but does not try to be a Python implementation. The toolchain compiles programs to C which can then be compiled and executed like “normal” binaries. Programs can be trivially cross-compiled by any available C cross-compilers, too, which is something that always seems to be a struggle elsewhere in the software world. Unlike other Python compilers or implementations, it does not use CPython’s libraries, nor does it generate in “longhand” the work done by the CPython virtual machine.

One might wonder why anyone should bother developing such a toolchain given its incompatibility with Python and a potential lack of any other compelling reason for people to switch. Given that I had to accept some necessary reductions in the original scope of the project and to limit my level of ambition just to feel remotely capable of making something work, one does need to ask whether the result is too compromised to be attractive to others. At one point, programs manipulating integers were slower when compiled than when they were run by CPython, and this was incredibly disheartening to see, but upon further investigation I noticed that CPython effectively special-cases integer operations. The design of my implementation permitted me to represent integers as tagged references – a classic trick of various language implementations – and this overturned the disadvantage.

For me, just having the possibility of exploring alternative design decisions is interesting. Python’s design is largely done by consensus, with pronouncements made to settle disagreements and to move the process forward. Although this may have served the language well, depending on one’s perspective, it has also meant that certain paths of exploration have not been followed. Certain things have been improved gradually but not radically due to backwards compatibility considerations, this despite the break in compatibility between the Python 2 and 3 branches where an opportunity was undoubtedly lost to do greater things. Lichen is an attempt to explore those other paths without having to constantly justify it to a group of people who may regard such exploration as hostile to their own interests.

Lichen is not really complete: it needs floating point number and other useful types; its library is minimal; it could be made more robust; it could be made more powerful. But I find myself surprised that it works at all. Maybe I should have more confidence in myself, especially given all the preparation I did in trying to understand the good and bad aspects of my previous efforts before getting started on this one.

Developing for MIPS-based Platforms

A couple of years ago I found myself wondering if I couldn’t write some low-level software for the Ben NanoNote. One source of inspiration for doing this was “The CI20 bare-metal project“: a series of blog articles discussing the challenges of booting the MIPS Creator CI20 single-board computer. The Ben and the CI20 use CPUs (or SoCs) from the same family: the Ingenic JZ4720 and JZ4780 respectively.

For the Ben, I looked at the different boot payloads, principally those written to support booting from a USB host, but also the version of U-Boot deployed on the Ben. I combined elements of these things with the framebuffer driver code from the Linux kernel supporting the Ben, and to my surprise I was able to get the device to boot up and show a pattern on the screen. Progress has not always been steady, though.

For a while, I struggled to make the CPU leave its initial exception state without hanging, and with the screen as my only debugging tool, it was hard to see what might have been going wrong. Some careful study of the code revealed the problem: the code I was using to write to the framebuffer was using the wrong address region, meaning that as soon as an attempt was made to update the contents of the screen, the CPU would detect a bad memory access and an exception would occur. Such exceptions will not be delivered in the initial exception state, but with that state cleared, the CPU will happily trigger a new exception when the program accesses memory it shouldn’t be touching.

Debugging low-level code on the Ben NanoNote (the hard way)

I have since plodded along introducing user mode functionality, some page table initialisation, trying to read keypresses, eventually succeeding after retracing my steps and discovering my errors along the way. Maybe this will become a genuinely useful piece of software one day.

But one useful purpose this exercise has served is that of familiarising myself with the way these SoCs are organised, the facilities they provide, how these may be accessed, and so on. My brother has the Letux 400 notebook containing yet another SoC in the same family, the JZ4730, which seems to be almost entirely undocumented. This notebook has proven useful under certain circumstances. For instance, it has been used as a kind of appliance for document scanning, driving a multifunction scanner/printer over USB using the enduring SANE project’s software.

However, the Letux 400 is already an old machine, with products based on this hardware platform being almost ten years old, and when originally shipped it used a 2.4 series Linux kernel instead of a more recent 2.6 series kernel. Like many products whose software is shipped as “finished”, this makes the adoption of newer software very difficult, especially if the kernel code is not “upstreamed” or incorporated into the official Linux releases.

As software distributions such as Debian evolve, they depend on newer kernel features, but if a device is stuck on an older kernel (because the special functionality that makes it work on that device is specific to that kernel) then the device, unable to run the newer kernels, gradually becomes unable to run newer versions of the distribution as well. Thus, Debian Etch was the newest distribution version that would work on the 2.4 kernel used by the Letux 400 as shipped.

Fortunately, work had been done to make a 2.6 series kernel work on the Letux 400, and this made Debian Lenny functional. But time passes and even this is now considered ancient. Although David was running some software successfully, there was other software that really needed a newer distribution to be able to run, and this meant considering what it might take to support Debian Squeeze on the hardware. So he set to work adding patches to the 2.6.24 kernel to try and take it within the realm of Squeeze support, making it beyond the bare minimum of 2.6.29 and into the “release candidate” territory of 2.6.30. And this was indeed enough to run Squeeze on the notebook, at least supporting the devices needed to make the exercise worthwhile.

Now, at a much earlier stage in my own experiments with the Ben NanoNote, I had tried without success to reproduce my results on the Letux 400. And I had also made a rather tentative effort at modifying Ben NanoNote kernel drivers to potentially work with the Letux 400 from some 3.x kernel version. David’s success in updating the kernel version led me to look again at the tasks of familiarising myself with kernel drivers, machine details and of supporting the Letux 400 in even newer kernels.

The outcome of this is uncertain at present. Most of the work on updating the drivers and board support has been done, but actual testing of my work still needs to be done, something that I cannot really do myself. That might seem strange: why start something I cannot finish by myself? But how I got started in this effort is also rather related to the topic of the next section.

The MIPS Creator CI20 and L4/Fiasco.OC

Low-level programming on the Ben NanoNote is frustrating unless you modify the device and solder the UART connections to the exposed pads in the battery compartment, thereby enabling a serial connection and allowing debugging information to be sent to a remote display for perusal. My soldering skills are not that great, and I don’t want to damage my device. So debugging was a frustrating exercise. Since I felt that I needed a bit more experience with the MIPS architecture and the Ingenic SoCs, it occurred to me that getting a CI20 might be the way to go.

I am not really a supporter of Imagination Technologies, producer of the CI20, due to the company’s rather hostile attitude towards Free Software around their PowerVR technologies, meaning that of the different graphics acceleration chipsets, PowerVR has been increasingly isolated as a technology that is consistently unsupportable by Free Software drivers. However, the CI20 is well-documented and has been properly supported with Free Software, apart from the PowerVR parts of the hardware, of course. Ingenic were seemingly persuaded to make the programming manual for the JZ4780 used by the CI20 publicly available, unlike the manuals for other SoCs in that family. And the PowerVR hardware is not actually needed to be able to use the CI20.

The MIPS Creator CI20 single-board computer

I had hoped that the EOMA68 campaign would have offered a JZ4775 computer card, and that the campaign might have delivered such a card by now, but with both of these things not having happened I took the plunge and bought a CI20. There were a few other reasons for doing so: I wanted to see how a single-board computer with a decent amount of RAM (1GB) might perform as a working desktop machine; having another computer to offload certain development and testing tasks, rather than run virtual machines, would be useful; I also wanted to experiment with and even attempt to port other operating systems, loosening my dependence on the Linux monoculture.

One of these other operating systems involves two components: the Fiasco.OC microkernel and the L4 Runtime Environment (L4Re). Over the years, microkernels in the L4 family have seen widespread use, and at one point people considered porting GNU Hurd to one of the L4 family microkernels from the Mach microkernel it then used (and still uses). It seems to me like something worth looking at more closely, and fortunately it also seemed that this software combination had been ported to the CI20. However, it turned out that my expectations of building an image, testing the result, and then moving on to developing interesting software were a little premature.

The first real problem was that GCC produced position-independent code that was not called correctly. This meant that upon trying to get the addresses of functions, the program would end up loading garbage addresses and trying to call any code that might be there at those addresses. So some fixes were required. Then, it appeared that the JZ4780 doesn’t support a particular MIPS instruction, meaning that the CPU would encounter this instruction and cause an exception. So, with some guidance, I wrote a handler to decode the instruction and generate the rather trivial result that the instruction should produce. There were also some more generic problems with the microkernel code that had previously been patched but which had not appeared in the upstream repository. But in the end, I got the “hello” program to run.

With a working foundation I tried to explore the hardware just as I had done with the Ben NanoNote, attempting to understand things like the clock and power management hardware, general purpose input/output (GPIO) peripherals, and also the Inter-Integrated Circuit (I2C) peripherals. Some assistance was available in the form of Linux kernel driver code, although the style of code can vary significantly, and it also takes time to “decode” various mechanisms in the Linux code and to unpick the useful bits related to the hardware. I had hoped to get further, but in trying to use the I2C peripherals to talk to my monitor using the DDC protocol, I found that the data being returned was not entirely reliable. This was arguably a distraction from the more interesting task of enabling the display, given that I know what resolutions my monitor supports.

However, all this hardware-related research and detective work at least gave me an insight into mechanisms – software and hardware – that would inform the effort to “decode” the vendor-written code for the Letux 400, making certain things seem a lot more familiar and increasing my confidence that I might be understanding the things I was seeing. For example, the JZ4720 in the Ben NanoNote arranges its hardware registers for GPIO configuration and access in a particular way, but the code written by the vendor for the JZ4730 in the Letux 400 accesses GPIO registers in a different way.

Initially, I might have thought that I was missing some important detail: are the two products really so different, and if not, then why is the code so different? But then, looking at the JZ4780, I encountered another scheme for GPIO register organisation that is different again, but which does have similarities to the JZ4730. With the JZ4780 being publicly documented, the code for the Letux 400 no longer seemed quite so bizarre or unfathomable. With more experience, it is possible to have a little more confidence in one’s understanding of the mechanisms at work.

I would like to spend a bit more time looking at microkernels and alternatives to Linux. While many people presumably think that Linux is running on everything and has “won”, it is increasingly likely that the Linux one sees on devices does not completely control the hardware and is, in fact, virtualised or confined by software systems like L4/Fiasco.OC. I also have reservations about the way Linux is developed and how well it is able to handle the demands of its proliferation onto every kind of device, many of them hooked up to the Internet and being left to fend for themselves.

Developing imip-agent

Alongside Lichen, a project that has been under development for the last couple of years has been imip-agent, allowing calendar-based scheduling activities to be integrated with mail transport agents. I haven’t been able to spend quite as much time on imip-agent this year as I might have liked, although I will also admit that I haven’t always been motivated to spend much time on it, either. Still, there have been brief periods of activity tidying up, fixing, or improving the code. And some interest in packaging the software led me to reconsider some of the techniques used to deploy the software, in particular the way scheduling extensions are discovered, and the way the system configuration is processed (since Debian does not want “executable scripts” in places like /etc, even if those scripts just contain some simple configuration setting definitions).

It is perhaps fairly typical that a project that tries to assess the feasibility of a concept accumulates the necessary functionality in order to demonstrate that it could do a particular task. After such an initial demonstration, the effort of making the code easier to work with, more reliable, more extensible, must occur if further progress is to be made. One intervention that kept imip-agent viable as a project was the introduction of a test suite to ensure that the basic functionality did indeed work. There were other architectural details that I felt needed remedying or improving for the code to remain manageable.

Recently, I have been refining the parts of the code that support editing of calendar objects and the exchange of updates caused by changes to calendar events. Such work is intended to make the Web client easier to understand and to expose such functionality to proper testing. One side-effect of this may be the introduction of a text-based client for people using e-mail programs like Mutt, as well as a potentially usable library for other mail clients. Such tidying up and fixing does not show off fancy new features or argue the case for developing such software in the first place, but I suppose it makes me feel better about the software I have written.

Whither Moin?

There are probably plenty of other little projects of my own that I have started or at least contemplated this year. And there are also projects that are not mine but which I use and which have had contributions from me over the years. One of these is the MoinMoin wiki software that powers a number of Free Software and other Web sites where collaborative editing is made available to the communities involved. I use MoinMoin – or Moin for short – to publish content on the Web myself, and I have encouraged others to use it in the past. However, it worries me now that the level of maintenance it is receiving has fallen to a level where updates for faults in the software are not likely to be forthcoming and where it is no longer clear where such updates should be coming from.

Earlier in the year, having previously read queries about the static export output from Moin, which can be rather basic and not necessarily resemble the appearance of the wiki such output has come from, I spent some time considering my own use of Moin for documentation publishing. For some of my projects, I don’t take advantage of the “through the Web” editing of the solution when publishing the public documentation. Instead, I use Moin locally, store the pages in a separate repository, and then make page packages that get installed on a public instance of Moin. This means that I do not have to worry about Web-based authentication and can just have a wiki as a read-only resource.

Obviously, the parts of Moin that I really need here are just the things that parse the wiki formatting (which I regard as more usable than other document markup formats in various respects) and that format the content as HTML. If I could format it as static content with some pages, some stylesheets, some images, with some Web server magic to make the URLs look nice, then that would probably be sufficient. For some things like the automatic generation of SVG from Graphviz-format files, I would also need to have the relevant parsers available, too. Having a complete Web framework, which is what Moin really is, is rather unnecessary with these diminished requirements.

But I do use Moin as a full wiki solution as well, and so it made me wonder whether I shouldn’t try and bring it up to date. Of course, there is already the MoinMoin 2.0 effort that was intended to modernise and tidy up the software, but since this effort made a clean break from Moin 1.x, it was never an attractive choice for those people already using Moin in anything more than a basic sense. Since there wasn’t an established API for extensions, it was not readily usable for many existing sites that rely on such extensions. In a way, Moin 2 has suffered from something that Python 3 only avoided by having a lot more people working on it, including people being paid to work on it, together with a policy of openly shaming those people who had made Python 2 viable – by developing software for it – into spending time migrating their code to Python 3.

I don’t have an obvious plan of action here. Moin perhaps illustrates the fundamental problem facing many Free Software projects, this being a theme that I have discussed regularly this year: how they may remain viable by having people able to dedicate their time to writing and maintaining Free Software without this work being squeezed in around the edges of people’s “actual work” and thus burdening them with yet another obligation in their lives, particularly one that is not rewarded by a proper appreciation of the sacrifice being made.

Plenty of individuals and organisations benefit from Moin, but we live in an age of “comparison shopping” where people will gladly drop one thing if someone offers them something newer and shinier. This is, after all, how everyone ends up using “free” services where the actual costs are hidden. To their credit, when Moin needed to improve its password management, the Python Software Foundation stepped up and funded this work rather than dropping Moin, which is what I had expected given certain Python community attitudes. Maybe other, more well-known organisations that use Moin also support its development, but I don’t really see much evidence of it.

Maybe they should consider doing so. The notion that something else will always come along, developed by some enthusiastic developer “scratching their itch”, is misguided and exploitative. And a failure to sustain Free Software development can only undermine Free Software as a resource, as an activity or a cause, and as the basis of many of those organisations’ continued existence. Many of us like developing Free Software, as I hope this article has shown, but motivation alone does not keep that software coming forever.

A recent LWN.net article, “The trouble with text-only email“, gives us an insight through an initially-narrow perspective into a broader problem: how the use of e-mail by organisations and its handling as it traverses the Internet can undermine the viability of the medium. And how organisations supposedly defending the Internet as a platform can easily find themselves abandoning technologies that do not sit well with their “core mission”, not to mention betraying that mission by employing dubious technological workarounds.

To summarise, the Mozilla organisation wants its community to correspond via mailing lists but, being the origin of the mails propagated to list recipients when someone communicates with one of their mailing lists, it finds itself under the threat of being blacklisted as a spammer. This might sound counterintuitive: surely everyone on such lists signed up for mails originating from Mozilla in order to be on the list.

Unfortunately, the elevation of Mozilla to being a potential spammer says more about the stack of workaround upon workaround, second- and third-guessing, and the “secret handshakes” that define the handling of e-mail today than it does about anything else. Not that factions in the Mozilla organisation have necessarily covered themselves in glory in exploring ways of dealing with their current problem.

The Elimination Problem

Let us first identify the immediate problem here. No, it is not spamming as such, but it is the existence of dubious “reputation” services who cause mail to be blocked on opaque and undemocratic grounds. I encountered one of these a few years ago when trying to send a mail to a competition and finding that such a service had decided that my mail hosting provider’s Internet address was somehow “bad”.

What can one do when placed in such a situation? Appealing to the blacklisting service will not do an individual any good. Instead, one has to ask one’s mail provider to try and fix the issue, which in my case they had actually been trying to do for some time. My mail never got through in the end. Who knows how long it took to persuade the blacklisting service to rectify what might have been a mistake?

Yes, we all know that the Internet is awash with spam. And yes, mechanisms need to be in place to deal with it. But such mechanisms need to be transparent and accountable. Without these things, all sorts of bad things can take place: censorship, harassment, and forms of economic crime spring readily to mind. It should be a general rule of thumb in society that when someone exercises power over others, such power must be controlled through transparency (so that it is not arbitrary and so that everyone knows what the rules are) and through accountability (so that decisions can be explained and judged to have been properly taken and acted upon).

We actually need better ways of eliminating spam and other misuse of common communications mechanisms. But for now we should at least insist that whatever flawed mechanisms that exist today uphold the democratic principles described above.

The Marketing Problem

Although Mozilla may have distribution lists for marketing purposes, its problem with mailing lists is something of a different creature. The latter are intended to be collaborative and involve multiple senders of the original messages: a many-to-many communications medium. Meanwhile, the former is all about one-to-many messaging, and in this regard we stumble across the root of the spam problem.

Obviously, compulsive spammers are people who harvest mail addresses from wherever they can be found, trawling public data or buying up lists of addresses sourced during potentially unethical activities. Such spammers create a huge burden on society’s common infrastructure, but they are hardly the only ones cultivating that burden. Reputable businesses, even when following the law communicating with their own customers, often employ what can be regarded as a “clueless” use of mail as a marketing channel without any thought to the consequences.

Businesses might want to remind you of their products and encourage you to receive their mails. The next thing you know, you get messages three times a week telling you about products that are barely of interest to you. This may be a “win” for the marketing department – it is like advertising on television but cheaper because you don’t have to bid against addiction-exploiting money launderers gambling companies, debt sharks consumer credit companies or environment-trashing, cure peddlers nutritional supplement companies for “eyeballs” – but it cheapens and worsens the medium for everybody who uses it for genuine interpersonal communication and not just for viewing advertisements.

People view e-mail and mail software as a lost cause in the face of wave after wave of illegal spam and opportunistic “spammy” marketing. “Why bother with it at all?” they might ask, asserting that it is just a wastebin that one needs to empty once a week as some kind of chore, before returning to one’s favourite “social” tools (also plagued with spam and surveillance, but consistency is not exactly everybody’s strong suit).

The Authenticity Problem

Perhaps to escape problems with the overly-zealous blacklisting services, it is not unusual to get messages ostensibly from a company, being a customer of theirs, but where the message originates from some kind of marketing communications service. The use of such a service may be excusable depending on how much information is shared, what kinds of safeguards are in place, and so on. What is less excusable is the way the communication is performed.

I actually experience this with financial institutions, which should be a significant area of concern both for individuals, the industry and its regulators. First of all, the messages are not encrypted, which is what one might expect given that the sender would need some kind of public key information that I haven’t provided. But provided that the message details are not sensitive (although sometimes they have been, which is another story), we might not set our expectations so high for these communications.

However, of more substantial concern is the way that when receiving such mails, we have no way of verifying that they really originated from the company they claim to have come from. And when the mail inevitably contains links to things, we might be suspicious about where those links, even if they are URLs in plain text messages, might want to lead us.

The recipient is now confronted with a collection of Internet domain names that may or may not correspond to the identities of reputable organisations, some of which they might know as a customer, others they might be aware of, but where the recipient must also exercise the correct judgement about the relationship between the companies they do use and these other organisations with which they have no relationship. Even with a great deal of peripheral knowledge, the recipient needs to exercise caution that they do not go off to random places on the Internet and start filling out their details on the say-so of some message or other.

Indeed, I have a recent example of this. One financial institution I use wants me to take a survey conducted by a company I actually have heard of in that line of business. So far, so plausible. But then, the site being used to solicit responses is one I have no prior knowledge of: it could be a reputable technology business or it could be some kind of “honeypot”; that one of the domains mentioned contains “cloud” also does not instil confidence in the management of the data. To top it all, the mail is not cryptographically signed and so I would have to make a judgement on its authenticity based on some kind of “tea-leaf-reading” activity using the message headers or assume that the institution is likely to want to ask my opinion about something.

The Identity Problem

With the possibly-authentic financial institution survey message situation, we can perhaps put our finger on the malaise in the use of mail by companies wanting our business. I already have a heavily-regulated relationship with the company concerned. They seemingly emphasise issues like security when I present myself to their Web sites. Why can they not at least identify themselves correctly when communicating with me?

Some banks only want electronic communications to take place within their hopefully-secure Web site mechanisms, offering “secure messaging” and similar things. Others also offer such things, either two-way or maybe only customer-to-company messaging, but then spew e-mails at customers anyway, perhaps under the direction of the sales and marketing branches of the organisation.

But if they really must send mails, why can they not leverage their “secure” assets to allow me to obtain identifying information about them, so that their mails can be cryptographically signed and so that I can install a certificate and verify their authenticity? After all, if you cannot trust a bank to do these things, which other common institutions can you trust? Such things have to start somewhere, and what better place to start than in the banking industry? These people are supposed to be good at keeping things under lock and key.

The Responsibility Problem

This actually returns us to the role of Mozilla. Being a major provider of software for accessing the Internet, the organisation maintains a definitive list of trusted parties through whom the identity of Web sites can be guaranteed (to various degrees) when one visits them with a browser. Mozilla’s own sites employ certificates so that people browsing them can have their privacy upheld, so it should hardly be inconceivable for the sources of Mozilla’s mail-based communications to do something similar.

Maybe S/MIME would be the easiest technology to adopt given the similarities between its use of certificates and certificate authorities and the way such things are managed for Web sites. Certainly, there are challenges with message signing and things like mailing lists, this being a recurring project for GNU Mailman if I remember correctly (and was paying enough attention), but nothing solves a longstanding but largely underprioritised problem than a concrete need and the will to get things done. Mozilla has certainly tried to do identity management in the past, recalling initiatives like Mozilla Persona, and the organisation is surely reasonably competent in that domain.

In the referenced article, Mozilla was described as facing an awkward technical problem: their messages were perceived as being delivered indiscriminately to an audience of which large portions may not have been receiving or taking receipt of the messages. This perception of indiscriminate, spam-like activity being some kind of metric employed by blacklisting services. The proposed remedy for potential blacklisting involved the elimination of plain text e-mail from Mozilla’s repertoire and the deployment of HTML-only mail, with the latter employing links to images that would load upon the recipient opening the message. (Never mind that many mail programs prevent this.)

The rationale for this approach was that Mozilla would then know that people were getting the mail and that by pruning away those who didn’t reveal their receipt of the message, the organisation could then be more certain of not sending mail to large numbers of “inactive” recipients, thus placating the blacklisting services. Now, let us consider principle #4 of the Mozilla manifesto:

Individuals’ security and privacy on the Internet are fundamental and must not be treated as optional.

Given such a principle, why then is the focus on tracking users and violating their privacy, not on deploying a proper solution and just sending properly-signed mail? Is it because the mail is supposedly not part of the Web or something?

The Proprietary Service Problem

Mozilla can be regarded as having a Web-first organisational mentality which, given its origins, should not be too surprising. Although the Netscape browser was extended to include mail facilities and thus Navigator became Communicator, and although the original Mozilla browser attempted to preserve a range of capabilities not directly related to hypertext browsing, Firefox became the organisation’s focus and peripheral products such as Thunderbird have long struggled for their place in the organisation’s portfolio.

One might think that the decision-makers at Mozilla believe that mundane things like mail should be done through a Web site as webmail and that everyone might as well use an established big provider for their webmail needs. After all, the vision of the Web as a platform in its own right, once formulated as Netscape Constellation in more innocent times, can be used to justify pushing everything onto the Web.

The problem here is that as soon as almost everyone has been herded into proprietary service “holding pens”, expecting a free mail service while having their private communications mined for potential commercial value, things like standards compliance and interoperability suffer. Big webmail providers don’t need to care about small mail providers. Too bad if the big provider blacklists the smaller one: most people won’t even notice, and why don’t the users of the smaller provider “get with it” and use what everybody else is using, anyway?

If everyone ends up almost on the same server or cluster of servers or on one of a handful of such clusters, why should the big providers bother to do anything by the book any more? They can make all sorts of claims about it being more efficient to do things their own way. And then, mail is no longer a decentralised, democratic tool any more: its users end up being trapped in a potentially exploitative environment with their access to communications at risk of being taken away at a moment’s notice, should the provider be persuaded that some kind of wrong has been committed.

The Empowerment Problem

Ideally, everyone would be able to assert their own identity and be able to verify the identity of those with whom they communicate. With this comes the challenge in empowering users to manage their own identities in a way which is resistant to “identity theft”, impersonation, and accidental loss of credentials that could have a severe impact on a person’s interactions with necessary services and thus on their life in general.

Here, we see the failure of banks and other established, trusted organisations to make this happen. One might argue that certain interests, political and commercial, do not want individuals controlling their own identity or their own use of cryptographic technologies. Even when such technologies have been deployed so that people can be regarded as having signed for something, it usually happens via a normal secured Web connection with a button on a Web form, everything happening at arm’s length. Such signatures may not even be any kind of personal signature at all: they may just be some kind of transaction surrounded by assumptions that it really was “that person” because they logged in with their credentials and there are logs to “prove” it.

Leaving the safeguarding of cryptographic information to the average Internet user seems like a scary thing to do. People’s computers are not particularly secure thanks to the general neglect of security by the technology industry, nor are they particularly usable or understandable, especially when things that must be done right – like cryptography – are concerned. It also doesn’t help that when trying to figure out best practices for key management, it almost seems like every expert has their own advice, leaving the impression of a cacophony of voices, even for people with a particular interest in the topic and an above-average comprehension of the issues.

Most individuals in society might well struggle if left to figure out a technical solution all by themselves. But institutions exist that are capable of operating infrastructure with a certain level of robustness and resilience. And those institutions seem quite happy with the credentials I provide to identify myself with them, some of which being provided by bits of hardware they have issued to me.

So, it seems to me that maybe they could lead individuals towards some kind of solution whereupon such institutions could vouch for a person’s digital identity, provide that person with tools (possibly hardware) to manage it, and could help that person restore their identity in cases of loss or theft. This kind of thing is probably happening already, given that smartcard solutions have been around for a while and can be a component in such solutions, but here the difference would be that each of us would want help to manage our own identity, not merely retain and present a bank-issued identity for the benefit of the bank’s own activities.

The Real Problem

The LWN.net article ends with a remark mentioning that “the email system is broken”. Given how much people complain about it, yet the mail still keeps getting through, it appears that the brokenness is not in the system as such but in the way it has been misused and undermined by those with the power to do something about it.

That the metric of being able to get “pull requests through to Linus Torvalds’s Gmail account” is mentioned as some kind of evidence perhaps shows that people’s conceptions of e-mail are themselves broken. One is left with an impression that electronic mail is like various other common resources that are systematically and deliberately neglected by vested interests so that they may eventually fail, leaving those vested interests to blatantly profit from the resulting situation while making remarks about the supposed weaknesses of those things they have wilfully destroyed.

Still, this is a topic that cannot be ignored forever, at least if we are to preserve things like genuinely open and democratic channels of communication whose functioning may depend on decent guarantees of people’s identities. Without a proper identity or trust infrastructure, we risk delegating every aspect of our online lives to unaccountable and potentially hostile entities. If it all ends up with everyone having to do their banking inside their Facebook account, it would be well for the likes of Mozilla to remember that at such a point there is no consolation to be had any more that at least everything is being done in a Web browser.

I was tempted to reply to a comment on LWN.net’s news article “The end of Flash”, where the following observation was made:

So they create a mobile site with a bit fewer graphics and fewer scripts loading up to try to speed it up.

But I found that I had enough to say that I might as well put it here.

A recent experience I had with one airline’s booking Web site involved an obvious pandering to “mobile” users. But to the designers this seemed to mean oversized widgets on any non-mobile device coupled with a frustratingly sequential mode of interaction, as if Fisher-Price had an enterprise computing division and had been contracted to do the work. A minimal amount of information was displayed at any given time, and even normal widget navigation failed to function correctly. (Maybe this is completely unfair to Fisher-Price as some of their products appear to encourage far more sophisticated interaction.)

And yet, despite all the apparent simplification, the site ran abominably slow. Every – single – keypress – took – ages – to – process. Even in normal text boxes. My desktop machine is ancient and mostly skipped the needless opening and closing animations on widgets because it just isn’t fast enough to notice that it should have been doing them before the time limit for doing them runs out. And despite fewer graphics and scripts, it was still heavy on the CPU.

After fighting my way through the booking process, I was pointed to the completely adequate (and actually steadily improving) conventional site that I’d used before but which was now hidden by the new and shiny default experience. And then I noticed a message about customer feedback and the continued availability of the old site: many of their other customers were presumably so appalled by the new “made for mobile” experience and, with some of them undoubtedly having to use the site for their job, booking travel for their colleagues or customers, they’d let the airline know what they thought. I imagine that some of the conversations were pretty frank.

I suppose that when companies manage to decouple themselves from fads and trends and actually listen to their customers (and not via Twitter), they can be reminded to deliver usable services after all. And I am thankful for the “professional customers” who are presumably all that stand in the way of everyone being obliged to download an “app” to book their flights. Maybe that corporate urge will lead to the next reality check for the airline’s “digital strategists”.