In the holy theater of the Steering Committee, risk is treated as a ghost: acknowledged in the liturgy, ignored in the sermon, and exorcised from the budget. The Project Risk Log is bowed to, as one might nod at the Ten Commandments, and then briskly violated. Funds for mitigation? Contingency? A bridge too far—indeed, a bridge they propose to cross when it is already on fire. Here Comes the Bride Permit, for once, a domestic parable. You are the father of the bride: dazed by the prospect of your princess leaving the citadel, and newly acquainted with the medieval custom that her joy will be financed by your treasury. The dress was chosen at thirteen, the napkin colors at fifteen; the bill is due now. You hire a wedding planner—your project manager—who compiles requirements, drafts a plan, and totals the cost. Mr Murphy is Also Invited Do you then sleep the untroubled sleep of the credulous, persuaded that a fairytale admits no plot twists? Or do you, like any sentient mammal, ask what