Pervez Sanni should creep her from time to time the rival
Russ Waszkiewicz
Trimming off the rest of this post is unnecessary.
I will guarantee anonymity except in cases of blatant abuse.
I will achieve anonymity by tallying the results in
uncorrelated tabulations and then deleting the emails.
(I know this loses interesting correlation data, but if
resondents want anonymity it's hard to avoid.)
I know that this anonymity promise depends on trust and that
you have no particular reason to trust me. Someday, I hope.
I will post results Saturday.
xxxxxxxx beginning of survey xxxxxxxx
yes( ) ( )no Should RoadRunner be subjected to some kind of UDP?
yes( ) ( )no ... active UDP (cancels) ?
yes( ) ( )no ... passive UDP (drop messages) ?
yes( ) ( )no ... all-groups UDP? (as opposed to specific groups)
yes( ) ( )no Are you a Usenet sysadmin? How big:_ How long:_
yes( ) ( )no Should another server be subjected to UDP? Who:_
yes( ) ( )no Should UDPs be used more often?
yes( ) ( )no Should UDPs be used less often?
yes( ) ( )no Would you have answered this survey without anonymity?
xxxxxxxx end of survey xxxxxxxx
--
aura said that it was
meant but that he had a doubt as to my writing ability. As I
took my leave his last words were, "You really should write
a book."
"Aw, don't look so glum" said the liftman. "The sun is
shining outside. Didn't he want your book?"
"That's just the trouble," I replied, as I got out of the lift,
"He did!"
I walked along Regent Street thinking that everyone was
mad. Me write a book? Crazy! All I wanted was a job pro-
viding enough money to keep us alive and a little over so
200
that I could do auric research, and all the offers I had was
to write a silly book about myself.
Some time before I had answered an advertisement for
a Technical Writer for instruction books in connection with
aircraft. By the evening mail I received a letter asking me
to attend for an interview on the morrow. "Ah!" I thought,
"I may get this job at Crawley after all!"
Early the next morning, as I was having breakfast before
going to Crawley, a letter dropped in the box. It was from
Mr. B-. "You should write a book," the letter said.
"Think it over carefully and come and see me again."
"Pah!" I said to myself, "I should hate to write a book!"
Off I went to Clapham Station to get a train for Crawley.
The train was the slowest ever, to my mind. It seemed
to dawdle at every station and grind along the stretches
between as if the engine or the driver was at the last gasp.
Eventually I arrived at Crawley. The day was swelteringly
hot now and I had just missed the bus. The next one would
be too late. I plodded along through the streets, being mis-
directed by person after person, because the firm I was going
to see was in a very obscure place. At long last, almost too
tired to bother, I reached a long, unkempt lane. Walking