Wherefore Art Thou RodBlogger?

If you've been checking this blog occasionally to see what I'm up to - my apologies. Of late, I've taken to photo-blogging instead, which hasn't left any room for this blog.

Have a decko at my Photoblog.

The Sorcerer’s Apprentice

To err is human, to forgive, devine. But to really stuff up, you need a computer.

And anyone can stuff up a bit, but to really stuff up, takes talent. And of course, to for a bigger stuffup, it helps to have a bigger computer.

In my case, the big computer was Black Betty, down in the basement, darkly lurking, waiting for the klutzy-fingered adventurer to enter the inner sanctum.

The only way in was via arcane incantations known only to The Sorcerer.

You could tell how difficult this was by the litter of horrid corpses of those who’d failed.

And so it was one night at the end of a long day I accepted The Challenge. I’d been chasing this intermittent bug for months.
It was an S106 ABEND in COBOLII module IGYxxx.

Now if you know what that means, then you too must be student of the dark art of the mainframe. My condolences.

I’d been waiting for ages for this bug to reappear. Once something tripped it, it’d continue to recur. What I needed was an opportunity to catch the sneaky little bugger (oops, a pun) in what’s called an “SVC Dump”.
This’d show me the contents of memory, hopefully allowing me to diagnose it.

So there I was, late-ish in the evening, candles flickering, when the bug popped up.
Knowing my apprentiship status in these things, I tried to contact The Sorcerer. He’s that grey-bearded old fellow up in the keep, and the only one really authorised for spells of this power.
But his messenger owl must have been off on an errand, and he didn’t respond.

Now at this point I should have remembered Mickey with the enchanted mops and buckets, but hey, this can’t be too hard.
So I reached for The Book of Extra Potent Spells (guess where this is heading…).
And believe it or not, I still have it in my leather-bound volume of notes.

Here it is.

SLIP SET,COMP=106,ACTION=SVCD,JOBNAME=xxx,MAXLIM=n,ID=xxx,ENABLE,END

This so-called “SLIP” command triggers a dump every time it matches until you turn it off. A similar command is required to turn it off.

Note the comma before the END.

Just a little comma. An insy-teeny insignificant little comma. Don’t forget it, or the command traps everything.
Yes, everything, and remember, this is not some puny little PC, it’s Black Betty the mainframe, running Everything.

Guess who forgot the comma.

Within seconds a message appeared. Something along the lines of “SLIP TRAP PROCESS BLAH BLAH BLAH” (I forget the rest).

I should explain that I was on a command-line terminal, and this message blocked whatever command I was currently typing.

Then another, and another. AAAARRRRGGG, I thought. I’ve got to turn that off asap! But every time I started typing a command, the blasted message would wipe it out.

Desperately I tapped the keys for another go, and after several tries, managed to get in:

SLIP SET,ID=xxx,DISABLE END

Hooray! I’m saved! …but wait. Have you spotted it?
The comma…? Remember the teensy insignificant little comma?

Darth Vader: voice…Noooooooooooo!!
I’d just set a second trap…Nooooooooo!!

Now the castle was full of mops and buckets, and I’m sloshing around in an ocean of trouble.
The poor mainframe, big-arsed that it was, was struggling mightily to dump the memory of every running process.
And in-between times it was sending me more SLIP messages. Then came the flood of “SYS1.SVCDUMP IS FULL" error messages.

Things were now really desperate, so I grabbed the emergency communicator owl, and called Lurch, The Sorcerer’s hunchback assistant.

(Slithery voice..) “Ah, Rod. We thought you might call.”

Lurch might have poor personal skills and vile breath, but this day his voice was music.

Within minutes he’d sprinkled the necessary potions and the cursed mops and all their buckets were swept away.

At least he didn’t require a human sacrifice.

Grandparents

Today is Grandad's birthday. In a couple of days it will be Grandma's.

In their memory I am posting the eulogy I gave at Grandad's funeral.

Success.
What is success? How does one measure the success of a life?

A prestigious car, sleek lines and well appointed?
A grand house, an ediface impressive to the visitor?

A name, well known, often spoken in the right circles?

A title and an office of status?
These are fine things, not to be rejected if offered.
But what are they without love, honour, and compassion; without wisdom, wit and humour;

time spent with family and friends; admiring the beauty and wonder of the world; speaking out for that which is right?

Grandad led a simple life, uncluttered by the most obvious trappings of success.

But was he successful? It was once put to us, my mother and I, that he was not.

He lacked the usual tags by which one might measure these things. The suggestion was, of course, a tactless one, and we vigorously refuted it.

By all the measures we hold most important, Grandad was a success. Grandad’s life was noticable for his love.

He loved life. He loved his family and his friends. To know Grandad was to know that this was true.

Most of all, he loved his wife. After Nana’s death, he spoke of her, often with a tear. They were partners to the end when in times of temporary marriages, this is an achievement of note.

Grandad led a life of honour. His sense of honesty and justice were quite plain to me, though he rarely spoke directly of such things.

Although society has changed much over Grandad’s lifetime, these are immutable values which I believe are visible in the generations which follow him.

What measure of success could be greater than this?

Grandad loved to garden. My earliest memories are of wandering among neatly tended garden beds; fine red tomatos and Nana’s chutney. I recall tapping on the pipe in the fish pond to summon the goldfish to feed on biscuit crumbs.

These images will remain with me forever, becoming more precious as I grow older.

In those things that matter most, Grandads life is one worth emulating.
As one of the younger generation, I feel that his is an example to follow. One could not do much better.

We all feel a sense of grief; a sense of loss at the passing of someone special.
But let us also feel a sense of joy, a sense of victory, even a sense of elation at the thought of a successful life.

Relative Ethics

Just got back from a trip to West Lewis Island, off the far North-West coast of Australia, so it's been quite from me lately. It's so hard getting back into the routine, even after a short break.

Do you ever have a conversation with someone, and it doesn't occur to you till later, that they said something that doesn't quite gel?

Michael made the off-hand remark that he was pretty unimpressed with Bill Clinton.
It occurred to me later what I might have said.
Which is worse: a few sleazy episodes on the side, or the slaughter of tens of thousands of people in an utterly pointless and inept war?

He's probably right about Clinton, but I know which I find the more offensive.

Flight of the Maggie

I do love the Australian magpie (the real magpie, not the English false magpie; real swans are black, not white).

But most Australians will also know the joy of being swooped by one.What a pest they can be! Here's one, snapped with me in his sights.

One of my early memories is of being at a picnic park somewhere.
On the edge of a grassy slope was the nest of a very stroppy maggie who seemed to get great entertainment from whacking the back of any passing heads.

So my brother and I thought it'd be fun to run full-pelt, down the hill, swirling a willow branch over our heads.
I still remember the feeling of it making contact with the bird as he made for us each time we made a run.
I seem to recall we tried a few times, probably until we got bored and went to pull the wings of some poor bug.
Ah, the joys of childhood.

By the way, did you know that a maggie can sing two notes simultaneously, and has a range of four octaves? Cool, huh! One of the most beautiful songs of any bird.

Classic Katie

This entry is from Katie: it's a sketch of a story idea she had when she was 12.
Pretty cool, eh?
(I've had to reproduce the text because it's too hard to read it in the pictures.)









Introducing Horatio. He slips through carelessness and falls into oil. Comes out on conveyor belt, falls into sugar with donuts,and frightened worker throws him in bin.






Wakes up. Tail, ears, and whiskers partly gone, one eye blind, fur nearly all gone. In awful pain. drags himself out of the bin, and is unconcious behind it for weeks.
Recovers and sees himself in shard of mirror. Is horrified at his appearance.Goes to his home. They are don't recognise him. His own father sends him away.











Joins circus.He meets leader who takes pity on him.
Does not enjoy job because he is lonely and sad.Leaves circus.
Sees Exterminators coming. Fights their cat. Foils their plan. Is a hero.
The factory rats elect him leader. He marries circus leader, and is happy and contented.

MumInBootsInArabba

Hello All

Finally found an internet point and its as slow as a wet week I just typed you a lovely long email and the damn thing timed out and ate it so here we go again!!!!!

Luckily the weather here has been good so we have done heaps of walking up and down the mountains. We did an interesting walk the other day, right up through a mountain to the top. This area was a front between Austria and Italy during WW1 and the Austrians were on top of the mountain chucking bombs down on the Italians in the pass so the Italians dug a tunnel right up through the rock to the top of the mountain underneath the Austrian position and blew the crap out of them. Wars are so dumb but the tunnels are still there and now you can climb up through them to 2752m it is very steep with a wire rope to haul yourself along and steps. We had to wear helmets and head torches as it is also very dark inside a mountain!

Missing you all, although I am still having fun. We have 1 more day of walking here then off to Padua then Ill get the train to Ancona which Im not looking forward to at all. I wish Id never agreed to it now!! Then I fly back to London then up tho Scotland to visit Cathy then over to Ireland then back to London and finally home. I cant wait to bore you with all my piccies and stories!!

Better go before the computer eats this message.

A Shithouse Movie

One quick thing before I start...I did suspect, but now I know.

Claire's a basket case.

Katie & I just got back from watching the Australian move Kenny.

It was great! Go and see it.

Oh - "shithouse"? That's a silly joke. You'll need to watch it to find out.

It reminds me a little of the classic The Castle.

Rather interesting in the light of the current waffle about "Australian values". Whatever that is, it comes through in this film. The wonderful, raw sense of humour.

And then, when I got home, there was a story about Terry Hicks, father of David currently rotting, without any proper legal process.
Australian values? Phhhhhhhaaa!