Ed: In an earlier article of this journal (q.v.), we had some fun at the expense of users. However it can be salutary, especially for authors of software that is supposed to be easy to use, to look at things from the user's point of view. They can be easily let down by such software as the following story shows. The story also depicts how much patience is required of those considering to be Help Desk operatives! Full marks to the one mentioned here.

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The following article is taken from an issue of The Sunday Telegraph Magazine of December 1999.

It is reprinted by permission of Lucy Tuck, the Editor of The Sunday Telegraph Magazine

The article is copyright.

© Rebecca Tyrrel; © The Sunday Telegraph Magazine.

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Most people, when asked by their spouses what they want for Christmas, will think for a while, say what they want and then wait and see what turns up on Christmas morning. I, however, having put in the request, am forced to undergo an endurance test to prove myself worthy of the gift. Last month I asked for a course in assertiveness training. With a logic so perverse I can barely comprehend it, Matthew denied my request. 'The very act of asking for assertiveness-training,' he explained, 'establishes that you have insufficient latent assertiveness for any course to build on.'

I was then asked to come up with something else. I reverted to my original request (Black Watch tartan pyjamas), which was in turn overruled on the grounds that pyjamas are not really what I want but just a cop-out to save myself the trouble of coming up with something original. Matthew then delivered an ultimatum: 'You have two days to come up with a sensible request.' Deciding what I want has now become an endurance test in itself.

Within an hour of my deadline, I have decided exactly what I want for Christmas. Inspired by an advertisement in a Sunday colour supplement, I am going to ask for an Apple Mac ibook laptop computer, one of those which come in attractive boiled-sweet colours.

'I want to go on-line, on the internet, with e-mail,' I tell Matthew. 'Bytes not atoms,' I add, 'the internet is the future. I want an ibook computer and I want it in blueberry.' Matthew's head makes its way into his hands at such speed that the slap must be audible next door. The head remains there, so I address the hands. 'What's the problem?' I ask. 'I'm within the deadline'

Matthew's argument, which he proceeds to make in great detail, is this: I am so technologically incompetent that it is as much as I can do to type my column on to his dull grey computer each week, and that thereafter he's the one who makes sure it gets to the magazine. I have no idea how it gets there - I don't know whether it goes down a modem, or by fax, or if Matthew runs all the way to Canary Wharf with it held high above his head like the Olympic flame. 'And now you want to go on-line. In blueberry.'

There is a long silence, and then Matthew gets up and starts pacing. 'All right, I have a plan,' he says, in the manner of an army colonel with a plot to escape from Colditz. 'If within one working day you have not managed to send me an e-mail, the computer is mine. If you succeed, then it's yours for Christmas.' I agree to go along with the plan.

The computer has arrived and it is quite lovely, all smooth and glowing. Matthew has monopolised it all weekend, but this morning he left the house saying, 'It's all yours for one day. I have set up an e-mail address for you on Virgin Net. The instruction book is on the desk.' How difficult can it be to send an e-mail? I raced upstairs, feeling like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep, sat down in front of the ibook, opened it, started it up and clicked on the 'Mail' icon. A series of boxes, sweet little envelope icons and the message 'Welcome to Virgin Net' appeared on the screen. I clicked on the 'Welcome' message and produced a letter from Richard Branson. 'Have fun!' it said.

For someone whose idea of relaxation is crash-landing balloons, I suppose this might qualify as fun. But not for me. I have no idea how to get rid of Branson's letter. I cannot call Matthew. I want to call Richard Branson. I call the Virgin Net helpline.

My helper on the helpline was as helpful as he could possibly be, for longer than he can possibly have anticipated. 'First of all, can I have your account number?' ' I'm afraid I don't know it.' He asked for my postcode. I couldn't remember my postcode. 'What is your e-mail address?' 'I don't know.' 'Find your postcode and ring back.' I rang back with the postcode. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Now what's your problem?' 'I have to send an e-mail to my husband.' 'I see' said the helper, and from the weary tone that entered his voice, I knew that he had just realised the scope of the problem. 'Have you typed in your husband's e-mail address?' he asked. 'No.' ' Type it in the box marked "To".' 'There isn't one. All I have on screen is a letter from Richard Branson.' Ten minutes later, we had reached the point at which I was ready to type a message to Matthew. 'You'll be fine now,' said the helper. 'Ring back if you have any more problems.' I imagine him grabbing his coat and signing off sick for the rest of the day.

'Is it very unusual for people to ring back for a third time?' 'It is a little, yes,' says my helper, who is still there, somewhere in Wales, somehow retaining his patience. 'What is the problem now?' 'My e-mail isn't going anywhere. It's still here. It won't leave.' The problem, it transpires, is that the ibook is not plugged into a phone line. The helper did everything he could for me. He talked me through the various cables that came with the computer, talked me round the skirting board in Matthew's office as I looked for a phone point. There really was no more he could do.

'I am not helping you,' said Matthew from his mobile.

Time was running out when our friend Jonathan rang. He rang 'just to say hello', but he got here in record time, he's here now and he's sent the e-mail to Matthew for me. He insisted I watched and learnt as he did it and I am pretty certain that I know what to do in the future, in case Matthew decides to set me any further endurance tests.

Matthew came home earlier than I expected and Jonathan is still here. Matthew knows. Somehow, after one look at me, he knows, and I know that he knows.

I've been sitting at the computer for an hour now with Richard Branson's letter in front of me. Matthew and Jonathan have gone to the pub and when they get back I am to have sent them both e-mails.

What I really, really want for Christmas is a pair of Black Watch tartan pyjamas.