Agony

Dear Verity,

My manager labours under the misapprehension that he is a great coder. He went on a C course in 1987, where he learned that strtok() was a "bad" function call (whereas we all know that it is perfectly safe if treated with respect). He believes this limited experience entitles him to query our decisions and pontificate on our designs.

For example, when I had a bit of a struggle with a service task that parses input from the serial port, John constantly came "to see how things are getting on" and enquire "are we winning yet?" He also repeatedly suggested that the cause of the problem might be "an extra call to strtok() corrupting its static buffer" — of course, he wouldn't know a static buffer if it rose up out of the grass and bit him. Most unfortunately, it eventually turned out that one of the bigger problems was caused by a rogue call to strtok(). Since then, things have taken a sharp turn for the worse. At this morning's meeting, he was angling to come on the "Retrain to C#" course with us.

Please Verity, what can we do to get him off our backs?

— Andrew C.

Dear Andrew,

With a little effort, it should be possible to entangle your man in some management fad or other. Buy a big, fat book — they come with titles such as "Forty-Six Peccadilloes of Kick-Bottom Leaders" or "Getting People To Do What You Want (Without The Fools Realising That You Want It)." Let him see you around the office reading it and, after you have built up in him a sufficient level of interest/paranoia, offer to lend him your copy. Naturally, you will have underlined particularly baffling suggestions; for example "SYNERGIZE," "Don't do things at the last minute; do them just before the last minute," or "Always take phone calls standing up" (it is a particular pleasure to monitor the effect of this last gem). You will soon have him out of your hair.

One note of caution: Choose your management guru wisely. Get the wrong one and, far from enjoying the quiet life, you will find your weekends filled by team-building paintball exercises, and frankly, serves you right. strtok() indeed, pah!

— V.

Dear Verity,

On the train to Birmingham last week, I thought my last moment had come. I suddenly felt awful palpitations in my chest. It happened again and again, every five minutes or so, way past Milton Keynes. To make matters worse, when I got home that night, Paula gave me the silent treatment, for no reason at all.

— Geoff T.

Dear Geoff,

Take out your Palm m505, select System|Prefs|Alarm Vibrate|Off. Alternatively, stop keeping your PDA in your inside jacket pocket. As for Paula, if she is half the woman I know she is, flowers will be insufficient compensation for forgetting Her Day. Try money. Why do you buy these gadgets if you don't know how to use them? It is just foolishness.

— V.

Dear Verity,

I am the only programmer in our office who still has a CRT monitor; everybody else has long since been upgraded to flat panels. I think this may have something to do with the scanner that got broken at the last Christmas party and me in casualty having glass splinters removed, so the prospects of a new screen in the near future are not good. What am I to do? I feel such a fool with this monstrosity with its backside hanging out behind my desk.

— Derek L.

Dear Derek,

You must make the best of a bad situation. Just as there are eccentrics who claim that valve radios sound better than their transistor equivalents, so it is inevitable that there will soon be a movement that regrets the loss of CRT flicker, contends that only vacuum tube phosphor delivers certain colours satisfactorily, hints that halitosis and tooth decay can be caused by prolonged exposure to TFTs, and so on.

Force of circumstances obliges you to pioneer this approach, feeble though it is. Pretend that you have retained your old monitor out of choice. Sympathise loudly with any of your colleagues who get a headache, always adding the rider "but I'm not surprised." Attribute any minor success to your superior view: "No wonder you didn't see the bug; I certainly wouldn't be able to on your screen." If you get lucky, there may be someone in your office foolish enough to swap with you.

A better long-term strategy would be to refrain from scanning your private parts at work. Modern scanners of high quality can be purchased cheaply for domestic use; I believe a well-known supplier certifies its range up to 24-bit colour and 16 stone (224 lbs).

— V.

Dear Verity,

I was chewing my lunchtime sarny in the park when a dirty, unshaven man came and sat down on the bench next to me. This was bad enough — like most southern English towns, it is against a byelaw for strangers to share a park bench unless they are spies or drug dealers — but worse was to follow. The man, who smelled strongly of cider and wee, swept my newspaper aside with a grimy hand and began to rant. It was all about how the company that he worked for had invented hyperlinks ("the key technology of the Internet, worth billions") and how they weren't being paid a penny, and how wicked and disgraceful it was. He kept on hectoring me for ages, effing and blinding like nobody's business; it was awful. In the end, I kicked him in the shins and ran away. Now I am afraid to go to the park.

— Deborah J.

Dear Deborah,

You have been accosted by one of British Telecom's patent lawyers, a gang of whom recently escaped from their cages on blasted Martlesham Heath and have been making mischief, embarrassing and shaming both BT and the British nation. They are being recaptured, but if you should encounter another one at liberty, don't panic. They have no power to do anything other than irritate.

— V.

DDJ