Lady Bracknell: So, Mr Worthing, you wish to offer my daughter an identifier on your computer. Perhaps you could describe the system to me: I have found that some systems have so many dumb terminals that the users waste their time, or, what is worse, that they have so many dumb users that the terminals waste their time.
Jack Worthing: Yes, indeed, Lady Bracknell. It is an IBM 3084Q running MVS.
L.B.: An unfashionable system, but no matter. Lady Bolton tells me that UNIX is all the rage these days -- but then I leave emotions like rage to computing service staff, and so does Gwendolen. How does one communicate with this machine?
J.W.: It has a language called Phoenix, Lady Bracknell.
L.B.: Every computer should have a language -- it gives one something to type when one sits down at the keyboard. However no man should have a language -- it only allows him to share his foolish ideas with others. Lord Bracknell has remained silent, by our mutual agreement, for these last fifteen years. May one run jobs on this computer?
J.W.: Yes, but the scheduler has a fundamentally incorrect algorithm and only runs jobs when it feels like it.
L.B.: Well I fear that these uncertainties may be too much for a well brought up girl like Gwendolen, but we cannot shield her from life's tragedies forever. How reliable is the hardware?
J.W.: Well, we had two system crashes last week, I'm afraid.
L.B.: For it to crash once may be regarded as a misfortune: for it to crash twice looks like carelessness. Still no doubt Gwendolen will be able to obtain tea and cucumber sandwiches to tide her over the lonely hours as she waits for the engineers to mend the fuses.
J.W.: I'm afraid that we only have the Vunderpacs, Lady Bracknell.
L.B.: Vunderpacs, Mr Worthing?
J.W.: Yes, you see that machine over there, the one marked "Out of Order"?
L.B.: There is only one thing worse than a Vunderpac which is out of order, and that is one which is not out of order.
J.W.: I'm sorry, Lady Bracknell. Some days they are not out of order, despite our every effort.
L.B.: Really, Mr Worthing, I can forgive you your incorrect algorithms and your system crashes, but a delicate young girl like Gwendolen cannot be expected to press her lips to a plastic cup, for all the world as if she were travelling second class on a railway train. I must suggest that you introduce a proper service, if you ever wish my daughter to trust her thesis to your computer. (Exit.)
Jonathan Partington, April 1991