Crisis management is all relative this week

Faced with two issues in one week, one concerning an event setup and the other her father, Fiona learns panicking is not necessary

This week I do the honours at a grand business awards. My job is that of compere: introducing the speakers and announcing the names of the runners and riders, winners and runners-up.

This high-powered event starts at midday, with a rehearsal first thing in the morning. Which is fortuitous, as the run-through throws up a serious snag.

This particular venue has been used for conferences and ceremonies many times before. But it appears it has only ever been in operation at night– or on cloudy days.

The thing is, there are a number of large glass skylights overhead. And when the sun shines – as, sod’s law, it does, on this ridiculously bright winter’s day – you cannot see the films or the graphics on the large screens either side of the stage. The answer is obvious: to cover the glass with some sort of blackout material. The problem is, the ceiling in question is a high one.

Heads are scratched. Brows furrow. Then a small cherry-picker is brought in to see if several large black bin bags can be pinned up there to stop the light streaming in.

After an hour of trying it appears they cannot. What is more, we are halfan-hour away from the arrival of 200 important guests. Panic is now setting in. The boss of the event’s management company is outside and talking about going up on the roof to roll pieces of carpet over the offending areas.

It is impressive. Then he is young and fit – and with this attention to detail, he will, no doubt, go far.

Then the sun goes miraculously behind the clouds. The TV screens are still not perfect, but they are certainly more viewable than they were.

We praise the efforts of this enterprising manager. He tells us these things are sent to try us.

It is all relative. Also this week I find myself sitting in a breast cancer clinic with my father. This disease is rare in men, but it does happen, and he was diagnosed six years ago.

So far the doctors have been using tablets to keep the growth at bay. But it now appears that my poor papa may need to consider an operation.

Approaching 90, this is not something that should be done lightly.

After he is examined we are both taken to a small waiting room where a reassuringly older consultant appears.

He is also dapper with tweed trousers, a matching waistcoat and a pair of shiny, pointed shoes. It is interesting what you

When the sun shines – as, sod’s law, it does, on this ridiculously bright winter’s day – you cannot see

notice when you are not the subject of concern.

Do you think I can leave the surgery decision until after Christmas, my dad asks? It is already fixed that he and my mother are coming to us for the festive season – and he wants to enjoy it.

The consultant considers the request, then smiles and nods. He looks like a chap who also likes a nice glass of wine. Until then, just keep taking the tablets, he says.