Business continuity management: Difference between revisions
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}}Until [[coronavirus]] came along an embittered, disregarded, disenfranchised, but yet strangely redundancy-proof contingency, made to live out their days in an enormous, drafty warehouse in Aldershot, with a suspiciously small number of parking spaces, and only one establishment selling edible food within realistic walking distance of of the facility, being the sole franchisee of ''[[Chester the Chicky Chick’s Charcoal Chicken]]'' “chain” of “family restaurants”. | }}Until [[coronavirus]] came along an embittered, disregarded, disenfranchised, but yet strangely redundancy-proof contingency, made to live out their days in an enormous, drafty warehouse in Aldershot, with a suspiciously small number of parking spaces, and only one establishment selling edible food within realistic walking distance of of the facility, being the sole franchisee of ''[[Chester the Chicky Chick’s Charcoal Chicken]]'' “chain” of “family restaurants”. | ||
But [[every dog has its day]], and boy oh boy, [[coronavirus]] | But [[every dog has its day]], and boy oh boy, should [[coronavirus]] have been yours. | ||
But ain’t life a bitch sometimes? When, finally, we have that [[black swan]]-fluttering, [[long tail]]-wagging, epochal event of systematic disruption, where the very citadel to which we all flood, day in, day out is crippled, a toxic ghost town with a three-mile exclusion zone — when finally your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, the wretched refuse of your middle management layer, yearning to freely populate their decks in a draughty warehouse — when at last they trudge like the obedient beasts and fowls through the teeming deluge, two-by-two, to your magnificent hill-top ark ''where you have been waiting an eternity to give them succour'' — | |||
{{sa}} | {{sa}} | ||
*[[Coronavirus]] | *[[Coronavirus]] | ||
*[[Every dog has its day]] | *[[Every dog has its day]] | ||
Revision as of 15:14, 31 December 2020
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People Anatomy™
A spotter’s guide to the men and women of finance. 
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Until coronavirus came along an embittered, disregarded, disenfranchised, but yet strangely redundancy-proof contingency, made to live out their days in an enormous, drafty warehouse in Aldershot, with a suspiciously small number of parking spaces, and only one establishment selling edible food within realistic walking distance of of the facility, being the sole franchisee of Chester the Chicky Chick’s Charcoal Chicken “chain” of “family restaurants”.
But every dog has its day, and boy oh boy, should coronavirus have been yours.
But ain’t life a bitch sometimes? When, finally, we have that black swan-fluttering, long tail-wagging, epochal event of systematic disruption, where the very citadel to which we all flood, day in, day out is crippled, a toxic ghost town with a three-mile exclusion zone — when finally your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, the wretched refuse of your middle management layer, yearning to freely populate their decks in a draughty warehouse — when at last they trudge like the obedient beasts and fowls through the teeming deluge, two-by-two, to your magnificent hill-top ark where you have been waiting an eternity to give them succour —