Friday: I have got a new job! The Cambridge University Computing Service is going to employ me. What an opportunity this is, to work with some of the finest brains in the country!
Getting the job was surprisingly easy. I entered their competition on the packet of Crunchy Half-Wheat Flakes -- I have these for breakfast every morning. As I said to my wife Carrie, "I would be a _half-wheat_ not to enter the competition." How we roared!
The competition was quite easy. "Arrange the following advantages of UNIX in order of importance: (a) easy to learn; (b) commands have natural names; (c) user-friendly; (d) ideal for large systems; (e) understood by Americans; (f) sexy name; (g) invented by Alan Turing; (h) well-documented. Then complete the following sentence in not more than six words: 'I think David Hartley is wonderful because ...'."
Anyway I got a letter from Professor Sir David Hartley F.R.S., O.M., inviting me to become a member of what he describes as "one big happy family" at "the cutting edge of software development". Apparently Sir David is now Supreme Ruler of the Computing Service -- they say he took over from Charles Babbage some time ago. I wrote back thanking him for the honour he did me, and agreeing to start on Monday.
I told my present employer, Mr Robert Maxwell, that I was leaving him. He seemed sad to see me go, but admitted that he probably wouldn't have been able to offer me much of a pension, anyway. I've left his yacht in excellent condition, with the decks thoroughly greased to prevent them from rotting. I gather he's off on a cruise soon.
Monday: I went to see my new employer in his office. "Good morning, Sir David," I beamed. Sir David dismissed his masseuse, his chiropodist and a lady armed with a pile of hairpieces, and said, "Oh yes, Pooter, isn't it? The one who won the competition on the Crunchy Half-Wheat Flakes packet?" "Indeed, Sir David," I replied. "I would have been a _half-wheat_ not to have entered the competition." "Oh really?" said my employer gruffly. "Why is that?"
He interrupted my attempts to explain my joke and explained what my new role would be.
"Have you heard of Eagle?" he asked. "It's our Flagship program. The most talked-about piece of software in history. We want you to rewrite it for UNIX. Of course there will be other duties: I want you dig up some dirt on these users (and he gave me a list), you have to attend some policy meetings, where we make up excuses, and Brian Wetsuit will want you to dig a few trenches for Project Grandpa."
A scantily-clad secretary came in, and showed me to my office. This is a small room with one desk in it. I share this with four of my colleagues: one is seven foot tall and keeps chewing glass; one is asleep under the desk and hasn't yet woken up (apparently he works nights and has no home to go to); one claims that she only came along to look for her son, missing believed suspended, and was offered a job with Micro Support; and the remaining one just stares into space and says "Noted" in a despairing tone of voice.
We take turns using the computer terminal, which was apparently once an old TV set. The windowing software is a bit dubious and sometimes we get Melvyn Bragg when we are looking for CAM.CUS.
Tuesday: I answered my first suggestion today. A user said, "Why are all the UNIX editors a load of wombat's droppings? Can we have ZED on UNIX please?" I got a message from the operators saying "Please look at this suggestion and make a sarcastic reply." A formidable challenge, but one to which I was equal. "I shall cause this to be ignored," I replied.
Later in the corridor I overheard Barry Handy talking with Phil Lazel. "What ho! This Pooter egg seems frightfully sound," said one. "_Rem acu tetigisti_, old bean," replied the other. I don't know which is which yet. Sometimes I think they disguise themselves in order to confuse the users. That can't be a real beard, can it?
Wednesday: Terrible trouble logging on today -- I kept getting Jacques Delors on CAM.CUS. Instead I went round to see Brian Wetsuit who was busy inserting fibre optic cables into the back of the Vunderpac. (Memo: Do not drink from this machine. It is only for the 'enemy' -- as we call the users.) "Just hold this wire," said Brian, and pushed the 'soup' button. I returned to my office to find it knee-deep in cold coffee. My colleague under the desk had woken up, and was busily engaged in inventing Essex girl jokes to add to CAM.INFO. Sometimes it is difficult to understand some of my colleagues.
Jonathan Partington, June 1992