It's Friday and I've got in especially early to continue the usual helpful
service we offer.  Hell, I'm only meant to be here at two, but I'm in for
twelve to aid the humble user in their quest for that that they can never
reach; that of being computer literate.

I fish through my snail-mail intray and find that some kind soul from
Peterborough has sent me half an Amazon of debug logs.  I politely sift
through them, looking for half a clue as to what the problem may have been.
Of course, there is no problem description; that's the way they get you...send
mountains of debug then subtely drop in a little hand-written plea requesting
that you call them if you need anymore information.  So like the soft-arse
that I am, I ring him and make caring noises about the fact that he only has
a 386/16 PC with 80Mb of hard drive and 4Mb of memory.  I thank him warmly
for my next month's reading material that he was kind enough to send me and
then stun him by hitting him with the question "So what actually is wrong
with your PC?".  I've got him there...I can sense the unease as he frantically
thinks of the problem that I was meant to be dealing with (but he'd forgotten
to mention the symptoms).  You can hear the whirring as he sorts through piles
of other problem report forms that he's sent off to numerous other poor
support departments around the world.

He gives up...."I can't remember the exact error message but it's something
like 'Windows has caused and error in your system' or something like that".
He apologises for not having written it down.  I reply with a stunning show
of tolerance saying that it's OK and that if it ever happens again, he should
write down the error message and contact me again.  He murmurs his thanks and
I promise that I'll keep the Amazon until he calls back.  More goodbyes and
then we're off the phone.  I head for my first cigarette.

I return from the smoke, calling in the kitchen to see if anyone is making tea,
planning that I could perhaps slip my cup next to any that were there and maybe
it might get made for me.  I really will buy a cup one day that has "TEA - 
STRONG - WHITE - TWO SUGARS - RING 212 WHEN READY" written on it.

I end up making my own tea and wander back to my desk.  I'm flipping through
the list of people who have called begging for help this morning, when the
phone rings.  It's one of the sales people panicing because some bright MIS
manager has realised that there's more to buying software than asking it's
functionality.  "Do we have our product for HP-UX 9.0.  Has it been ported
yet?".  I congratulate him on his knowledge of the terminology and then
politely point out that the piece of software he is referring to is actually
PC based. 

I ring a few people who were having problems, pointing some in the right
direction, hand-holding others over the phone whilst they install with
trepidation.  What a life - with patience like this, I should have been in
the Salvation Army or a social worker or something.

I smoke another cig and relax with computer weekly wondering whether or not
the people who write this are IT professionals or A level Art students who
have been retrained into "Science".  It's obviously the latter - noone in the
IT industry could really give a shit about who Bill Gates has married and what
colour the labels on the new DEC UK manager's socks are.  I throw it at the
Marketing staff in disgust and they dutifully absorb its contents.  What it
must be like!

It's five o'clock and I'm starting to get hungry so I sneak off to the chippy
on the corner and buy the biggest lot of fish, chips and peas possible.  Being
the Haloed Operator from Heaven, I've bought the rest of the guys in support
a bag of chips.

Just as I wander in the front door and am heading for the kitchen for a knife
and fork, the receptionist calls me back and says happily "I've got a call
from a man who I didn't get the name of from a company I couldn't
understand but I made out he wanted support.  I've tried the general number
but they all seem to be busy.  Will you take it?".  I reply in the affirmative
and rush round the building to my desk, throwing the bag of chips for the
rest onto a table where they can all gorge themselves, and answer the phone.
I consent to the call getting through and introduce myself.  "How can I help
you?"  I enquire with all the diplomacy of Terry Waite.

"I've just upgraded your software and it doesn't work any more.  Do you think
you could help me?" he says meakly.  I look at my fish, chips and peas with 
longing and reply "Yes - no problem - what is not working?".

"Your software" he murmurs.

Being the Sainted Operator from Support, I remember to log the call so ask him
what his name is.  "John Jones from Computer Experts" comes the response.
So what is so difficult about that, that reception didn't manage to understand 
it?  Hmmm.

"What are the messages it's giving you?" I ask.  He replies and I start to have
some idea of the level of computer literacy we are dealing with here.  Ie
NOT.  The errors he describe sound pretty terminal to me, so rather than hack
it all back together, I go for the 're-install' approach.  By now, my chips
and fish and peas are shivering.

I purr that he should delete the software completely and start again from
scratch.  His response chokes me - "I've actually got a demo on Monday
morning and I really need this working by then...do you think you could talk
me through it.  It was working (one of my techies did it), but I decided to 
reinstall it just in case".  Gut wrench, head bang!  It's him.  It's the
bastard user from hell.  It's the patronising sales guy of the century and he's
got a demo on Monday morning.  What posesses them to play with working systems?
Who gives them root permission so that they can go around reeking havoc and
then plague the world's saintly tech support personnel?  Why me?

I dutifully ask him to leave windows and to delete the software, coaxing him
through keypress by keypress.

I'm beaten and sit for half an hour talking the dummy at the other end of the
phone through a series of mouse clicks on boxes that have really difficult
questions to answer, like 'Would you like to install the software'.  He says
it's not doing anything, so I ask him to reply 'Yes'.  He does.  This goes on
for ages while I estimate when the install program will prompt for the next
disk.

Now we try again...his PC is now meant to be talking to his UNIX box.  We've
got a little further but he hasn't realised yet.  All he sees is that he's 
still getting error messages.  I ask him whether his network software is
working?  "How can I tell?" he predictably replies.  I talk him through the
incredible intricacies of ping and the syntax of it's usage; "Type ping, 
P-I-N-G space, then the name of your host machine."  He does it.  Nothing.
"Hello?" I venture, seeing if he's still awake.  He responds saying that he
is waiting for further instruction.  I ask him to press the return key.  He
does and no sooner has he done it than he gets the error that tells me that
he's not got a hosts file.

"Have you got a hosts file on your PC?"  I ask

"Yes - there was a small one there, but I copied the bigger one from
the directory SAMPLES as it must have more hosts in it over the top of the
original."

"OK - delete that file please".  I'm pissed now - not only has he been playing
with our software, he's buggered his network software as well!!!  Ahh!
"Now, please edit the file hosts".

"But I haven't got one now - we've just deleted it".

"Yes - just do it please".  I talk him through the creation of the hosts file
and wait while he runs around the office like a headless salesman trying to 
find out from his 'little techies' what the IP addresses of his PC and UNIX
box are.

My chips and fish are still cold, but the peas are starting to turn green and
furry.

We are now planes ahead of the first exchange...we can actually talk to his
machine now.  I begin to think that I may actually leave at ten o'clock, we're
doing *that* well.

The new error message tells me that something on his host machine does not like
the rexec call that it's getting from the PC.  I toy with the idea of fixing
his host machine but decide that if there is one thing more dangerous than a
salesman with a PC, it's one with a UNIX box and root priviledge.  I decide
instead to make sure that he can't break his UNIX machine as well as his PC
and opt for the soft approach - I talk him through changing the execution
method from rexec to rsh and then realise that I've blown it.  He's going to
need a .rhosts file and it was written that this guy will not know how to use
vi.  I begrudgingly talk him through the creation of his .rhosts file, stating
every keypress in vi with such careful accuracy that he cannot fail.  Of
course he does and I end up using the phrase most used with anyone of this
standard "Hit the escape button now hit the colon button, now type q followed
by an exclamation mark".  he follows this to the letter of course and so we
still have no .rhosts file.  After two more attempts we finally have a .rhosts
with the name of his PC in it.

We move back to the PC and it works!  He snivels his gratitude and thanks me
profusely for my patience.  He asks whether I want to know if he gets the
1000 user deal that this demo has been set up to tempt.  I decline saying that
the elixir of my life is not the sale, but the knowledge and satisfaction
that I have battled against the wind.  Having a computer you cannot see,
operated by a baboon you cannot see who cannot conceptualise a computer who is
at the end of a phone means you really are up against it and on occasions like
this one, I think you can quietly sit back and feel bloody smug that you
managed it even though the odds were stacked against you.  Shit, we're good
guys - the Florence Nightingales of the Technophobe era.

I glimpse at my watch and realise that the time is gone 7.00.  I've been on the
phone for nearly two hours.  My chips, fish and peas are now living with
neural networks spanning the place where once my peas lived.  Everyone else
has gone home.

I smoke a cig and head for the kitchen for a well deserved cup of tea.  As
I pass the fax machine it starts ringing.  It's for me...another salesman
with a demo on Monday asking that I call him and help him as he has been
ringing for the last two hours without a response.

I dig out my copy of the bastard operator from hell and dream of the day when
I too, will have learned the ways of the wizard.  I aspire to have an article
publicised in "kill -9", but until that day, I will routinely converse with
cabbages, liase with artichokes and generally have a shit time!

I leave work at 10 and manage to just make it to the pub for last orders.  I 
sit down with my pint of Greenalls and light a cig.  Bliss.

"Hi" shouts a voice from the other side of the bar....I look over and my
heart sinks.  It's the ameteur PC user from Hades - the one who has a PC for
playing Lemmings on but loves the parlance and taking it to bits so he can
upgrade his 286 to a 386, 2 meg to 4 etc.  He starts telling me about this
new display card he has and the wonderful drivers he got with it.  I politely
enthuse and get the hell out of there.

I arrive home and remember that bottle of Claret I've been saving for a 
desperate time.  I drink it.  And that Drambuie.  And that Whiskey.

Clunk.