'Yes, it is rather noisy and dusty here, we've been finding it a bit hard to concentrate. Sorry it's so uncomfortable. But I've known worse.'
What inspired me to say that, for God's sake? I've known worse, have I? When exactly have I known worse, I would like to ask? Have I ever commissioned an n-tier database system inside a running aircraft engine? Have I ever had to configure a TCP/IP network while dangled over the side of the late Jacques Cousteau's ship the Calypso in a shark cage? I demand that I produce the evidence that I have had to think in a worse environment than this factory.
This factory. With its ongoing whirlpool of mouse-clogging dust, its nowhere at all to sit while you are typing, its Local Radio Nowhere for Complete Morons blaring out its mysteriously piddling selection of five hateful tunes and two advertisements over the tannoy, which audio salad is continuously seasoned — aaaaargh, there it goes again! — by the screech of the aluminium saw conveniently sited three feet away from where I am allowed to set up the laptop, and the eardrum shattering spluttering of the portable air-driven tool, which as far as I can see achieves nothing except make noise, this factory, this factory... I'm sorry I've forgotten what I was going to say now.
That's been happening a lot since we got here. Me losing the thingy, thread.
'Of course, let's make a start on the test. The sooner we start, the sooner we can all get out of here.'
At least that's the truth. Come on, come on, let's get it over with, then I can go home and get my CV up to date. No way this house of cards we call our software stands up to the ten megaton Acceptance Test, correction ten megaton Acceptance Retest, 'cos it has already failed this exercise once... if we manage to survive this ordeal, then my name is Peter Mandelson Northern Ireland Secretary.
Yes I do know I am thought of as a pessimist, but you will find I am right about this one. You weren't here last week, during Attempt One. It was a massacre. Module after module went nipples skyward. The process monitor, which in happier times just says 'Minor Warningette' or 'Nothing doing', read like an obituary column. It had, count them, one, two, three, four entries, all the same. 'In not very loving memory of dbUpdate.exe which, being of unsound and corrupt body, did terminate suddenly and unnaturally'. It leaves behind a meaningless error log and also a project leader and a programmer looking excruciatingly foolish, being required to test the reporting of data that they know very well is not going to be there. No flowers; charitable donations should be made to the Royal Society for Prevention of Thirst in the Disappointed.
Have I discussed the matter with Mr dbUpdate? I fancy I may have mentioned it. Yes, he says he has fixed it. He has been up four nights in a row, steam-hammering exception-handlers into every nook and destructor he can find. According to him, the program will carry on running even if you switch off the PC and take it away. He has spot-welded it into an upright position. Confidence-making? Not really. It makes me think of the way they used to defend trenches in WW1, by carefully propping up corpses along the parapet.
'By all means try that. What a good idea — we should really have put that in the test ourselves.'
Don't look at me like that — what else could I say for God's sake? What do you think you are doing Mister Customer, improvising fresh tests for your software as you go along? Are you not aware of how narrow is the path we tread? Do you not sense the precipices either side? Can you not smell the sulphur rising up from the abyss below? Is this really the time to stray from the true way and go picking flowers among the pretty dialogs of obscure configuration? Do you not — aaaaaargh, the saw! the saw!
Actually, he did this last week too, did I tell you? He suddenly fancied he'd like to print out a list of incorrect transactions — a simple dump of the monochrome display — only it came out black-on-crimson from that stupid colour printer. Yup, it was a corker, something to do with the way MFC handles printing, apparently. Anyway, I got the giggles — I was way past caring by that point — I said, I'm afraid the software is wounded and it is bleeding, and then he said perhaps it is the time of... hold on, what's this?
'No, that happens because we have been jumping the date forward. You see, normally it gets run automatically on a Saturday. Look, if I kick off this batch file, it will be all right again.'
Wow, what a brilliant recovery, Verity, though I say so myself. A wonderful save, reacting like lighting and just flicking it over the crossbar with the very ends of your fingertips, safely past the bunker at third man into the gully at Beeches Brook from the centre of the racket. You know, I think we might pull this off. Don't start getting excited in the back there, but I think we might get away with it.
It's a funny thing about moving the clock forward. Here we are past the vernal equinox of next year already, having paused briefly at the turn of the year and on the legendary leap day of 2000. And although in real time I have only been standing here six hours, it does seem like halfway through next year. How did you bring in the millennium Verity? Did you go out? Yes, I spent it in this factory listening to a competition between Radio Moron and an electric saw, while a nasty man poked my software with a stick. It was absolutely the thing, my dear.
'Well of course you can redo that part of the test if you like, but it will take us some time to set it up.'
No you bloody won't matey. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to stop you doing this. I forbid it. I am going to use my Venusian mind meld: you will obey me, you will obey me, you want to get out of this factory, you want to go home, I WANT TO GO HOME.
'If you could just sign there, that's lovely. Thanks. No, I'm sorry we had to bring you back. Still, it worked out okay in the end, didn't it?'
eeeeeeeeeeeeYusssss!
