Verity is the pseudonym of a programmer based in the UK. She can be contacted at [email protected].
People, if you could be moving along into the hall now...
I'd best get in there and secure a decent seat. Don't want to turn up late and end up stranded at the very front, inevitably only female in row and, therefore, ultra-exposed soft target for any audience participation jiggery-pokery the lecturer may indulge in. Also much more difficult to unwrap and eat boiled sweets, read paperback novel in light of EXIT sign if lecture is NBG, and so on. Here, this will do, stationed in empty line of chairs at extreme end from aisle up against institutional soylent-green-coloured wall, good line of sight to OHP screen, unpack base camp, sorted.
Hmmm. Wish I'd laid off that coffee; it has an after-taste like paracetamol. Also becoming aware of needle on internal dial nudging the letter 'F.' Perhaps a mistake to rush in. Perhaps should have Paid A Call first. Don't fancy struggling out against general mlée now entering lecture hall. Anyway, a little bladder pressure actually an aid to concentration, as usefully counteracts notorious soporific effect of PowerPoint. On the other hand, maybe I should—
Excuse me, is anybody sitting there?
By all means, block me in and invade my body space, why don't you? And such a thorough job, too. For he is not exactly from Planet Tiny, this intruder. Why do I have to nod and smile encouragingly? Why don't I ever have the courage to fib in these situations, and say oh no, those seats are all taken by my soon-to-arrive friends from the rowing team? I could at least have spread the four free mouse-mats and two free T-shirts, gifts from generous megacorporations camped out in the lobby, over seats adjacent to mine. That's not the same as lying. I'm pretty sure that's even allowed by the stricter, fiercer religions.
Triffic. His giant friends have joined him. Exit utterly blocked. If there is a fire now, I am a dead woman. Unless I can put it out with my own resources, like Gulliver managing the Lilliputian conflagration. Must, must stop thinking about this as I am absolutely not prepared to squeeze past gargantuan, correction Brobdingnagian neighbours. Oh good, lights fading, here comes the chairman. Soonest started, soonest finished.
...a speaker who hardly needs introduction...
In fact, who needs rather careful introduction. Owing to the rumour that Mister Speaker was bitten with a severe case of Y2K panic and, in late 1999, holed up in a cave on the Falkland Islands. There, allegedly, he equipped himself with several helicopter-loads of long-life tinned corned beef and enough assorted guns and ammo (for 'self defence,' presumably against the fierce local sheep) as would keep a medium-sized terrorist cell going for a decade, if it were careful. These days Mister Speaker's claim to be the seer of the software industry has somewhat had the shine taken off it. Heckled in Brighton by naughty students going 'baa.'
Must work out some way to recast that story for Dave so I can shoehorn-in my all-time fave I'm Sorry I Haven't A Clue gag, viz: Q: What pleases a terrorist with a sweet tooth? A: Kalashnikov trifle. Ok, I'm really, really having difficulty in following the action here. Come on Verity, get a grip. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, COME ON. LISTEN.
...in the time available, so this is really three talks condensed into one...
Ah, a duff microphone. It is a source of ongoing amazement to me that nobody in the history of putting on software lectures has ever considered Maxwell's Fifth Law of electromagnetism—'Electricity is as electricity does'—or rather, its main practical upshot: that no radio mic ever functions correctly in public for more than about 15 minutes. This is torture. I can't hear properly and I've nothing to distract me from Topic A (or rather Topic P). Tell you what: I'll read the lecture notes instead. Yes, that'll give me something to do. Oh look, it's all about 'Refining the software life cycle—life after the waterfall,' Hey, I know this one. After the waterfall, you get the involuntary trickle.
There's a middle-aged, sinister-looking bloke in the row in front with a 30-year-old suit from the previous software life cycle, a moustache, pink pate on top and yet dark, shiny locks to his shoulders from his follicle lagoon. He keeps running his fingers through this hair, once every three seconds. Ugh. Bet that's how he lost his upper surface cover— wore it out. I wonder if he's telepathic. STOP STROKING YOUR HAIR YOU REVOLTING PERSON. Nope, he's not telepathic. I mean, with that bald bit he should have ESR (Extra Sensitive Reception), shouldn't he?
Oh God please, please stop talking now Mister Speaker. I have suffered enough. No micturition without intermission.
...has anybody got any questions?
Yup: Why don't you let us go? Oooh, I so resent people who ask questions at the end. Ninety-eight percent of the programming population can keep quiet like good introverts should, but there's always those few who spoil it for everyone. Only three types of person ask questions: 1) friends of the lecturer, so they can call him by his first name; 2) specialists who already know the material and really want to show off their knowledge and pursue argumentative pseudopoints until the lecturer says, 'This is a bit technical, let's take it offline,' enabling them to grin round triumphantly; and 3) morons who didn't follow diddley and demonstrate embarrassing, monstrous vapidity combined with dreadful, unselfconscious persistence, probably drummed into them by parents who taught them Always To Ask Teacher If They Didn't Understand.
Hurrah, lights up, freedom! Don't dawdle boys, clear the way, you must have untossed cabers to attend to, up the aisle, out the doors and, and:
Hi Verity! You've been to the old sheep-worrier, too! What did you think? Fancy a coffee? What? Oh okay, I'll meet you ba—oh, she's gone.
DDJ
