Monthly Archives: February 2009

A flaw in the BCP

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If the Chief Technology Officer is going to send an email to everyone saying “stay at home”, he really should do it earlier than 8.32, a time at which on a normal day almost everyone is at their desks.

My own manager did try to phone me, but the call came as I was pulling out onto the main road and I don’t answer the phone while I’m driving. By the time I had slithered into work and seen the almost deserted carpark, I could guess what the voicemail she had left would say.


The roads were much less crowded than yesterday but also much more slippery, cancelling out the advantage. To be honest I only pressed on to work because I had seen the queue of traffic heading in the other direction. Still, having got there I was able to give a colleague a lift back to Abingdon, to catch any bus that might be heading for Oxford, so I felt warm and fulfilled.

Tonight’s recipe: gnocchi bolognese, hot and with lots of garlic. Perfect for the season, I think.

Honour satisfied, now go home

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Management at work are currently considering whether to declare a BCP scenario. Lovely as it would be to think this means they will whip out a 1662 Book of Common Prayer and see what it says about the weather, it means the Business Continuity Plan will come into effect. After an hour’s journey in and a cup of coffee, and with full managerial approval, I pre-empted it by coming home anyway.

Earlier on, Bonusbarn escorted me to my car, frolicking in the virgin snow like a little lamb and helping me on my way with snowballs, bless him. I left him stewing with the possibility that school might still be open. It’s a hardy place. The last time we had snow, every other school in town closed except his; they let everyone get in, then sent them home again at 11. This time they saved him a journey by announcing that sixth form lessons were cancelled; no excuse for everyone else. So he’s happy.

The roads were slushy but passable, and very slow due to careful drivers. There’s a certain solidarity amongst snow drivers; an esprit de corps, a knowledge that we’re all brothers and sisters. Unless you’re the driver of a 4×4 Chelsea tractor that broke down in the left-hand lane halfway up Steventon Hill, flashers on and blocking off traffic to Didcot. Stuff the esprit de corps, you’re allowed to find that hilariously funny, unless of course you’re one of the drivers behind it. But as it happens, I go up the right-hand lane of Steventon Hill, so that’s okay.

Coming home, I came down the A34 which had no problems at all, and I saw The Snowplough. It appears to be the only one in existence in the UK, and I saw it. Ploughing snow. I feel fulfilled.

Now to get down to the work I brought home on a stick, relishing the chance to do it on a PC.

Strapped to a gurney

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So, you’ve given blood once or twice before and thought that platelet donation would be much the same? You fool.

The first difference is when the nurse breezily announces that the process takes on average 90 minutes. You gulp, and think of all the great books you could have bought to fill in the time. She assures you that they have plenty of newspapers and magazines. The Daily Mirror, Men’s Health … tears begin to come to your eyes.

Oh, and DVDs. You begin to perk up.

The second difference is when you are introduced to the Machine, a cross between a school chemistry experiment and a bad Dr Who special effect from the time when everyone knew you could tell a really advanced computer by the number of moving parts. And this is the really clever bit. It sucks your blood out, and you get to see it go down the tubes and squirt itself around a small plastic labyrinth (that’s the school chemistry bit). It then pumps into something like an unfeasibly long transparent condom which gets spun around in the machine’s innards. The platelets separate out and manifest in a clear plastic bag as a cloudy yellow liquid a bit like cheap consommé, or that stuff that floats to the top when you leave gravy in the fridge too long. And then the machine pumps the rest of it, which is still red, back into you. Therefore you don’t actually lose much, and can just get up and walk away when they unplug you 90 minutes later.

You feel tingling in your lips, making you feel strangely like you’re holding back tears even though you aren’t, which is an effect of the anti-coagulant they pump into you along with your returning blood. Otherwise the only real discomfort is sitting in the seat, something a bit like a dentist’s chair, for so long.

The guy who was scheduled alongside me had to pop out to phone a flatmate and alert him to a delivery from Tesco, so I was plugged in first and I got the unit’s sole DVD player. I got to watch Sliding Doors, an enjoyable bit of fluff with Mrs Martin which I hadn’t seen before. It’s a 95 minute movie for what turned out to be an 85 minute session, but they kindly let me finish it.

So, I get to do some good, lose a little consommé and suffer driving to the JR in rush hour, which frankly is the worst bit. Oh, and I get dinner three hours later than normal, but the sting of that is offset by an understanding wife who sticks an extra banana and kitkat in with my lunch. In return unknown strangers that I will never meet in this life with leukaemia or other disorderly nasties will benefit and, who knows, maybe lives will be saved. The good outweighs the bad.

Will probably do it again, and next time I’ll take a book.