Toby hewitt who is to blame

Barry Barton. Renewable Energy in New Zealand. Renewable Energy on the Market- a Danish Perspective. Ernest E. Alexandra S. Wawryk, Adrian J. Chacrit Sitdhiwej. Laws in Thailand Promoting Renewable Energy. Michael Dulaney, Robert Merrick. Kim Talus. Selma Stern. Turkey's Draft Petroleum Law. Lawrence Atsegbua. Issues in the Development of Marginal Oilfields in Nigeria.

Pedro Lorenti. Janeth Warden-Fernandez. Indigenous Communities' Rights and Mineral Development. Thomas Isaac, Anthony Knox. Judge Antonie Gildenhuys. William Manning. Paradise Lost or a Second Chance? Bruce Harvey, Simon Nish. Marcos A. Adenike Esan. Oluseye Arowolo. Vereniging voor Energie Kim Talus. Abdullah Al Faruque. Andrew Deszcz, Rick Ladbury. Petroleum Projects in Papua New Guinea. Mark Raymont. Timely Boost for Renewables in China. Sam Headon. Imke Sagemuller.

Olanrewaju Fagbohun. Alexander Kursky, Andrei Konoplyanik. Andrew P. Morriss, Roger E. Meiners, Andrew Dorchak. Diego Rojas Moreno. John Gulliver, Donald Zillman. Innovative Regulation for Energy and Resources. Tore Wiwen-Nilsson. Phasing- Out of Nuclear Power in Sweden. Bertrand Malmendier, Jorg Schendel. Unbundling Germany's Energy Networks. David O. Ricardo lrarrazabal. Mahmoud Reza Firoozmand.

Jonathan H. Hines, Alexander V. Andrei Konoplyanik, Thomas Walde. Sander Simonetti. Engobo Emeseh. Anne De Geeter. Chidinma Bernadine Okafor.

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Mariusz Swora. Astrid Kalkbrenner. A short summary of this paper. Download Download PDF. Translate PDF. In the Piper Alpha disaster, of those on board the platform who were killed, were employed by contractors and 31 by the Operator, of those who survived, 55 were employed by contractors and 6 by the operator.

Contractual risk management continues to be a challenging area for both operator and contractor companies as they continue to grapple with the consequences and implications from Macondo. Even if this can be determined, it may involve appeals, counterclaims and other time and cost consuming procedures.

Contractual risk management is therefore an approach to protecting an organization from losses caused by the potential risks. Contractual risk management is critical to the efficient implementation of exploration, development and production activities.

One element of risk management which this paper seeks to examine is risk allocation especially as between the operator and the contractors. Risk allocation in the industry may be achieved by setting out in the contracts clauses which party will be liable for or exempted from a given risk and to what extent. But contractual arrangements may deviate from this approach in order to spread the risks to the ones who can handle it more effectively.

It can be simple or mutual; examined separately or in combination with insurance as a tool for risk management between two or more parties. Here both parties indemnify each other. For the purposes of this paper, the focus will be on Mutual indemnity and hold harmless clauses. Here the parties are generally expressing the view that neither of them should have sole responsibility for a particular species of risk.

Clause 2. The creation of this deed was aimed at tackling the difficulty caused by ensuring that all subcontractors within a given contractual chain have appropriate risk allocation terms in place.

Two days passed by and then I felt my back began to ache, Sat on the floor — not good, so new plans I rushed to make.

I found a picnic table, oh such deep joy that was to me, Somewhere to put my laptop and of course my cup of tea! But alas! There were no windows so I found the light quite dim, I needed to be seated where the sun could stream right in. So I moved again quite quickly into my living room this time, with a big and open window, I had a view that was sublime.

With our team meetings held online, that really was not fun, Not like the old days, around a table with a cuppa and a bun.

Emails, texts, more lists and tasks they kept on coming through, When face to face with students was what I really longed to do. I missed my lunch time cover, the jukebox playing really loud, With laughter, lots of chatter from such a cheerful student crowd. I just want my mum to wake up, to lift her legs and come to my room, I want her to look into my flooded eyes and clumpy mascara my eyelashes that push away tides of sea salt tears and the current that crumples my face with woe.

I want her to see my pain, through my running makeup a race to see which darkest tear can reach my lips first or which stranded eyelash can fall the furthest. I want her to read my face as a book, with a hardback cover with inarticulate words formed by cosmetic-ink splodges. I want her to take all my aches pains away and give them to the bin men to collect on Thursday and burden them to a trash heap, not much difference from their original owner.

The sunrise was beautiful this morning. My eyes would probably burn out of my head if I looked up at the sun. No one can hear. Vigorously, I rub my wrist. I need to stop agitating it. But my shackles are just so tight. My arms and legs are all bound in irons. The chains, thick and heavy, are secured to the walls. Still, I have the ability to move around. I can even reach the door. Its handle is cold to the touch. Not an inch. What life could be like. What life used to be like. Now, he is always watching.

Barely visible in the 53 Page. Underneath it is a rickety stack of wooden drawers, one of which is missing. A noise startles me. Is someone outside? I sit still, straining to hear. Perhaps I imagined it. Who could it be anyway? No one is coming for me. A victim of the dark. I never did feel like I truly had a place I belonged.

Now I do. During the first few days inside my cell, I could feel the walls closing in on me. I barely had the room to breathe. My mind wanders. What is it they call that condition? When you develop feelings for your captor. Stockholm Syndrome? But I can make sense of it, at least. My captor is here now. Calmly, he collects a key from the rickety drawers. With meticulous care, he unlocks each one of the four irons. One by one, they fall to the floor with a clank. In the dark, his face is obscured.

Much like his thoughts. And his motives. He places the key back in its drawer. After a while I rub my aching wrist, then sit back down on the mattress and reach for my shackles.

Stop reading the news. Feel the breeze, thisFeel willthe allbreeze, blow over. Turning 17 brings a lot of new experiences. My dad drives me back from a practice. A bird swoops inches from the windscreen. He then indicates to pull over. Turns out the bird was not a bird, but rather the front learner driver plate that we had forgot about.

So here I am, worrying and waiting a good hour or so after seeing my dad vanish over the top of the hill. The revs were up. I was clutching the handbrake, ready to go, or so I thought. Upon hearing the voice of 57 Page. Controlling its laughter, it comes to a halt, stopping its mockery.

Turns out I had forgot to put the car in gear. Karma can still come to bite my dad back though. My blunders he takes pleasure from watching can turn on him sometimes. Every time he changes from passenger to driver that happens: my dad complains about his legs when I forget to push the seat back.

Or was it…? I am thankful to my dad though for fixing the parts and taking me out during weekends every once so often before lock-down started, and for my driving instructor for teaching me to drive. My instructor says I am making good steady progress and says it is good to see my enthusiasm. Like grandfather, like father, like daughter I suppose. Poncho Paul sat alone in his bedroom, the kind of room where every inch was put to use and dust collected on surfaces unseen for years.

He was gazing out of his second-floor window onto the deserted urban landscape below. Since the lockdown began, the graffiti artists had taken the advantage in the interminable war against the council employees, the battlefield being the east facing brick wall of a closed down community centre visible from his window. Instead of the usual trite social commentary and phallic symbolism, there was instead a rainbow and a message of gratitude to the NHS workers.

It made Poncho Paul smile. The volume was low but currently the leader of the free world was muttering something bigoted and ill-informed. If Trump is the answer, what the hell was the question?

Paul thought to himself as he reached for the remote and turned it off. The spider stopped, but seemingly unamused and incredulous, 59 Page. Poncho Paul watched as the Sun began to evanesce. The myth of Phaeton came to mind, the boy tumbling from the sky; pride before the fall was a favourite of the Greeks, and of Pauls. It seemed an felicitous metaphor for humanity in the 21st century. A society which had come to believe it was bullet proof.

Still, Poncho Paul was hermetic in his convictions that every crisis has the potential to prompt positive change. Paul smiled again, the etymology of the word hospital derives from the Latin Hospes, meaning stranger. Now here he was, a stranger, helping those who pledged to help society. Not much, granted, but he was in lockdown after all. With the items purchased, he returned his phone to his pocket. Relaxed and contemplative he closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze on his face.

A muffled sound began to grow from outside, spreading like an erroneous 5G conspiracy across social media, eventually it became recognisable: clapping, banging and cheering. Poncho Paul opened his eyes, stood up, alone in his bedroom, and began to clap. They called it lockdown. Everyone under lock and key. Though it seemed to me, No one had the lock Or indeed the key.

Life as normal or life imitating art? Faces flashing on a screen Never before seen. Rehearsed words. Play acting. A blurry scene Of angry shouts. Red faces. Worn out Excuses. Counting the significance. The Insignificant. No more. And yet. Questions: an unending reel. Round and round a hamster wheel. Unfathomable depths; Unfathomably real. Eyes watch on. We were told to shut down. Perhaps they took it literally; The last desperate farce of a clown. Yes, they called it lockdown.

Billy is in his 70s. He is sitting in a living room in a large armchair that could be seen as comfortable. He is shouting through to his wife in the kitchen. Could you put that kettle on, Janet love? She shows up on everything. There they go again, next door. How many times in one day do you actually need to go up and down those bloody stairs? I thought that was him knocking on the door just then, but I must be hearing things. Did you put that kettle on, love?

I thought Rita from down the road might have given me a ring. Maybe I missed it. I might try calling her, actually. The one you got me for my birthday.

With the couple sat by the river. The one you said reminded you of us. When we went to Paris. The good times. Billy starts to move but the effort is clearly too much for him.

It seems he is in pain. I could still do with that brew though. She must be really busy. All that running around.

Messing about. Playful laughter. All those incessant cuddles. The feeling of being wanted, needed. Billy looks through to the kitchen. There is no one there. The kettle is probably broken, Janet love. Mental health, careers, lives at stake Fear doubles for what lies ahead Leaving home could be a fatal mistake In a month am I healthy or dead?

Weep, risk, hope. Technically it was yours, but it still longed to be back in my chest to feel the internal beating, the red rush running thick in each vessel for my body to feel full and contented, for my heart to be back home safe. You clenched my heart tight — with violent solicitude your fingers, cold bone — entwined around my chambers and strings. I just looked at it as an obscured love you held for me, an alien method of affection, a tight possession. The first cut you made hurt.