💾 Archived View for clemat.is › saccophore › library › ebooks › bofh › newbofh › bofh8oct97.txt captured on 2021-12-03 at 14:04:38.
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TThhee BBaassttaarrdd OOppeerraattoorr FFrroomm HHeellll
WWhheenn tthhee PPFFYY sshhoowwss ccoommppaassssiioonn ttoo aa uusseerr,, tthhee BBOOFFHH ssuussppeeccttss aa MMiidd--JJoobb
CCrriissiiss aanndd ttaakkeess eemmeerrggeennccyy aaccttiioonn ......
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It's a slow afternoon at Mission Control when the phone rings. It's an
external call, which is more welcome than the internal variety.
As luck would have it, it's my slave-trader come to take me out for the
twice-yearly drink-up, food-stuff and pep-talk to guarantee my custom in
the years ahead. True, I could go back to contracting direct as I used
to, but this way someone else has to foot the bill for a six-monthly
night of excess. The PFY and I arrange to skive off early and meet him
in a local drinking establishment. The night promises to be
interesting...
Sure enough, the next day, the PFY and I are somewhat slow on the
uptake. Whilst the idea of doing the Monopoly-Board Pub Crawl sounded
like a good idea under the influence of lager at 10 past 5, at 10 past
10 in the morning, enthusiasm has tapered off somewhat.
So much so in fact that the presence of a user in our office provokes
only a minor response.
The PFY reaches half-heartedly for the power stapler, only slightly
modified with extra torque on the firing spring, a 'rapid fire' setting,
and the removal of the safety guard.
"Hang on!" I cry, not wanting to endure several hundred CLACKs and
miscellaneous screams in my current condition. "Can I help you?" I ask
the user.
"I'm after a UTP cable for my computer," the user asks, displaying an
education in networking that's generally prohibited at user level. (For
their own good of course.)
"How long would you like it?" I ask tiredly.
"Well, I'd like to keep it if it's all right with you," he adds,
chuckling away at a joke that's so old Noah used it buying wood for the
Ark.
"Sure, just grab one from the brown cardboard box in the corner."
The user contentedly wanders off with a cable and the PFY corners me.
"Are you all right?" the PFY asks in a strangely caring voice. "You
helped a user?"
"By giving him one of the dud cables that we sell for copper scrap? I
was just buying time till my hangover goes. Mark my words, he'll be
back."
"Oh," the PFY responds, realising that even on a bad day the old CPU's
still ticking over. He pauses for a moment - something plainly on his
mind.
"Don't you ever worry that we lie to users too much?"
A Mid-Job Crisis. I should have seen it coming. All the symptoms were
there - the care for others, the slow-draw of the stapler.
"Don't be ridiculous!" I cry, wanting to nip the surge of conscience in
the bud. "Users expect to be lied to, like Insurance companies and the
Inland Revenue. It's your right - no your duty - to misinform in the
interests of technological advancement."
"Well, I've been thinking - I don't know if I'm really cut out for this
job."
It's worse that I thought. Before the PFY can go on, I ring the helpdesk
and give them his number for 'problem calls'. Surprisingly enough, they
start putting users through almost immediately.
"Hello?"
Two hours later the damage is done and the PFY's back to normal. The
user who wanted to know why the 'follow-me' service wasn't working on
her phone was probably the straw that broke the camel's back. It took a
while for the PFY to realise she was carrying her desk phone around the
building with her, but as a veteran hand at these things I expected no
less.
He's back on form by the time my amateur networker returns to the
office.
"That cable you gave me is broken!" he cries in a distressed manner.
"I don't think so," the PFY says calmly. "We ran a cable check on all of
them."
"That's true," I respond. "Except of course we didn't do the humidity
differential test because our multimeter's broken."
"Of course," the PFY gasps.
"That'll be it," our user cries, feigning knowledge.
"Tell you what," I say to our ardent amateur. "You grab one end of the
cable and go into the comms corridor and just hold the plug in your
mouth. You'll feel a slight tingle if the humidity differential's OK and
nothing if the cable's broken."
Seconds later the silence of the comms corridor is punctuated by a
scream and a series of thuds.
"Whoops," the PFY blurts. "Plugged it into the 90V AC Phone-Bell test
transformer by mistake."
The thuds next door stop, which can only mean our user's managed to bite
through the cable to disconnect himself.
"Good to have you back," I say as the PFY unplugs the evidence. I mean
cable.
"Good to be back."
Isn't it funny how things work out for the best?
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