To HAV and HAV not
Like many organisations we have been required to act positively to protect ourselves from Hand/Arm Vibration syndrome (HAV), which used to be known as Vibration White Finger. As a result we have invested heavily in HAV metering, monitoring and recording equipment, and we had it installed on all our combustion-engine-powered equipment.
And those of you who have perchance read my posts here in the past, when I say *we* I usually, as in this case, mean *I*.
I am a gardener, but in the past have had a worrying number of other jobs, giving me a grounding in a lot of weird and arcane knowings. Such as the colours of the rainbow, the number of sides on a nonagon and how many beans make five. This puts me some distance ahead of most ... no ... all of my work colleagues, and sadly also of my boss. You doubt this? Please read on...
On the day the HAV kit arrived I discovered a number of things. I discovered that we had ordered an HAV kit. I discovered how it worked. And I discovered I was going to fit it...
I read the leaflet, and it was fairly plain sailing. Resin *tags* contained a rare-earth magnet and a pre-programmed RFID chip. Already Mr Boss was impressed. He had no idea what a rare-earth magnet was, never mind an RFID tag. Clearly I was the Chosen One. Clearly I was just the Man for the Job. Clearly I hadn't yet learned to keep my big stupid mouth firmly closed...
The tags had adhesive bases, were pre-programmed for the relevant equipment, with the description and vibration data already embedded. It had to be stuck to the equipment, epoxy-resined on and tested, for each of the 30 pieces of equipment. Then the software (£1,000, single user liicence) installed on a laptop, base station installed, set up and calibrated and finally the SD card installed.
Actually surprisingly easy...
All was good. The RFID readers clip magnetically to the tags, measure *Trigger Time* and accurately measure vibration and warn well before Gummint standard exposure levels are reached. And at the end of the day the readers go into the base station which drags off the data to SD card.
And today Mr Boss wanted that data. I told him I'd get the SD card once I'd finished doing my diploma paperwork. *No! I can get it! How hard can it be?* Ok, I admit that I *should* have raced him to the base station as soon as I heard those words, but I was working on *Transport and storage regulations for liquid fuels (not gaseous) and hazardous liquids (not radioactive) (in containers of 5 litres or less)(by road)*. And I was gripped. Well, asleep...
So, when he turned up in the office with the laptop, the SD card and a pair of pliers I didn't immediately scream. I showed him how to insert the card in the laptop, drag the data to the software and analyse the usage details therein. All was well, until I isolated the SD card and pushed it in to get it to eject from the laptop.
*Oh!* said Mr Boss.
*Well, I wish the Base station was as easy to get the card from!*
I explained that it was just that easy. Push it in, it clicks and pops out on a spring.
*No it doesn't! I had to take a screwdriver to the panel and drag it out with a pair of pli...where are you going?*
The ejection spring is actually jamming the drive. The door is broken off. The contacts for the card are twisted together. It is, dear reader, bolloxed. Yet bless him, he wants me to fix it, because at £750 plus VAT a time he doesn't want it to be broken. And I should have shown him how to take the card out, so clearly it is my fault.
I have a responsible position at work. Whatever ficks up, no matter who does it, I am responsible...
And those of you who have perchance read my posts here in the past, when I say *we* I usually, as in this case, mean *I*.
I am a gardener, but in the past have had a worrying number of other jobs, giving me a grounding in a lot of weird and arcane knowings. Such as the colours of the rainbow, the number of sides on a nonagon and how many beans make five. This puts me some distance ahead of most ... no ... all of my work colleagues, and sadly also of my boss. You doubt this? Please read on...
On the day the HAV kit arrived I discovered a number of things. I discovered that we had ordered an HAV kit. I discovered how it worked. And I discovered I was going to fit it...
I read the leaflet, and it was fairly plain sailing. Resin *tags* contained a rare-earth magnet and a pre-programmed RFID chip. Already Mr Boss was impressed. He had no idea what a rare-earth magnet was, never mind an RFID tag. Clearly I was the Chosen One. Clearly I was just the Man for the Job. Clearly I hadn't yet learned to keep my big stupid mouth firmly closed...
The tags had adhesive bases, were pre-programmed for the relevant equipment, with the description and vibration data already embedded. It had to be stuck to the equipment, epoxy-resined on and tested, for each of the 30 pieces of equipment. Then the software (£1,000, single user liicence) installed on a laptop, base station installed, set up and calibrated and finally the SD card installed.
Actually surprisingly easy...
All was good. The RFID readers clip magnetically to the tags, measure *Trigger Time* and accurately measure vibration and warn well before Gummint standard exposure levels are reached. And at the end of the day the readers go into the base station which drags off the data to SD card.
And today Mr Boss wanted that data. I told him I'd get the SD card once I'd finished doing my diploma paperwork. *No! I can get it! How hard can it be?* Ok, I admit that I *should* have raced him to the base station as soon as I heard those words, but I was working on *Transport and storage regulations for liquid fuels (not gaseous) and hazardous liquids (not radioactive) (in containers of 5 litres or less)(by road)*. And I was gripped. Well, asleep...
So, when he turned up in the office with the laptop, the SD card and a pair of pliers I didn't immediately scream. I showed him how to insert the card in the laptop, drag the data to the software and analyse the usage details therein. All was well, until I isolated the SD card and pushed it in to get it to eject from the laptop.
*Oh!* said Mr Boss.
*Well, I wish the Base station was as easy to get the card from!*
I explained that it was just that easy. Push it in, it clicks and pops out on a spring.
*No it doesn't! I had to take a screwdriver to the panel and drag it out with a pair of pli...where are you going?*
The ejection spring is actually jamming the drive. The door is broken off. The contacts for the card are twisted together. It is, dear reader, bolloxed. Yet bless him, he wants me to fix it, because at £750 plus VAT a time he doesn't want it to be broken. And I should have shown him how to take the card out, so clearly it is my fault.
I have a responsible position at work. Whatever ficks up, no matter who does it, I am responsible...