From Cornwall to the Middle East, by accident

As my experience deepened, I was invited to take on a senior management role within the group’s national construction company. This marked a shift in scale and complexity. In this capacity, I led a larger safety team comprising several officers and a dedicated safety manager, coordinating efforts across multiple sites and ensuring compliance with evolving national standards. On a small building site, safety begins long before the first helmet is donned. The footprint is tight—barely room to swing a wheelbarrow, let alone store a month’s worth of materials. If everything arrives at once, the site clogs. Movement stops. Risks multiply. Materials must be ordered on an as-needed basis. Delivered to a holding area that doesn’t block the workface. Distributed with care. The wrong-sized telehandler—a brute on a postage stamp—can turn a tidy site into a hazard. Logistics, not muscle, keeps things safe. As sites grow, so does the complexity. Multiple trades, overlapping schedules, and thi...

Before the age of composite panels, industrial roofing was a careful choreography. Each layer—liner, spacer, insulation, top sheet—was placed by hand, aligned to steel purlins that run like ribs across the skeleton of the warehouse. It was slower, riskier, and demanded a kind of spatial fluency that modern systems have all but erased. To remain relatively safe roofers walked the purlin line —heel to toe, fix to fix, this was the rhythm of roofing. On built-up systems, you didn’t step on the liner sheet because it flexed like a drumskin and held nothing but air beneath. You stepped where steel ran and adjusted your stride to fit the purlin spacing. An accident occurred on an apparently routine job. A twin-skin old style roof construction. The upper roof had just stepped down to a new level, with closer purlin spacing to account for possible snow drift loading. No one marked the changed spacing. No hazard triangle on the drawing. No mention of it in the induction. No note in the day’s ...

I joined a company that was one of a Group of firms, part of a wider network of regional and international contractors. Together, they delivered both small and large-scale projects across the UK and overseas. From 1995, the Construction (Design and Management) Regulations reshaped the UK construction landscape. For us, it meant formalising what had long been instinctive: clear lines of safety responsibility, coordinated oversight, and a renewed emphasis on site welfare. The introduction of the Principal Contractor role brought legal clarity to what we’d already been navigating in practice. On most projects we operated as Management Contractor—hiring and choreographing trade specialists. On small local jobs our own workforce brought a rhythm and familiarity that no subcontractor could replicate. I began as a company safety manager based in Cheltenham, overseeing site compliance and risk management with the support of a single safety officer. I was one of several dozen company safe...

After Falmouth I nursed a vague notion that I’d drift into computer graphics—join the ranks of those producing animated films in sleek studios lit by enthusiasm and energy drinks. I suspected that kind of future might favour a London postcode, so we moved in with the in-laws in Essex and waited for destiny to send an embossed invitation. It never came. In the meantime, I turned back to my trade. I secured a job as an odd-job man in a construction company’s yard. The company  was a prominent figure in British civil engineering and construction, and undertook lots of work in the Dagenham Ford factory. The yard was typical enough: a squat tower crane for shunting cabins and containers, a repair workshop with creaking stores, and a small office block that smelled of photocopiers and lukewarm tea. The work was menial, physical, varied—and to my surprise, I didn’t mind. When the site cabins returned from jobs the floors were mosaics of trampled newspapers, chip packets, bent drawin...

School had been a bit of a washout for me—mostly my own fault, if I’m honest—but I don’t recall much encouragement either. The place seemed more interested in controlling us than cultivating anything. I left with a handful of CSEs, none of them equivalent to a GCSE pass, and no sense that I could advance myself through education. It wasn’t until I started my apprenticeship and attended Pool Technical College that something shifted. One of the tutors—sharp-eyed, probably bored of seeing lads undersold—suggested I take an O Level in English. I did, and to my surprise, passed. That single nudge opened the door to Blackpool, where I took a Higher National Certificate in Technical Writing. From there, improbably, I found myself at Falmouth School of Art, enrolled in a BA(Hons) in Scientific and Technical Graphics. Art School was a different world. I was surrounded by students who could conjure elegance from a Rotring pen, or sketch with the kind of flair that made tutors nod approvingly...

After a stint in a Cheltenham guesthouse, four of us ex-Holman lads rented a flat above a butcher’s shop in a village near the Severn. Night-shift work meant I often drove us all in, bleary-eyed and half-fed. One of my flatmates owned a motorcycle. My licence said I could legally ride one, though my experience was limited to farm tracks and a brief flirtation with a moped at the Royal Cornwall Show. One afternoon, I decided to borrow the bike. No permission, no warning—just me, his helmet, and a vague sense of entitlement. I rode into Gloucester, then turned back, coasting down a dual carriageway with the wind in my hair and a feeling of freedom unmatched by any car. I could see over hedges, into fields, and into a version of myself that felt untethered and alive. Then I looked back to the road. A roundabout loomed. I panicked, grabbed the front brake, and promptly launched myself into the hedge. Helmet and spectacles in the grass, broken indicator on the tarmac. A pristine white...

The realities of modern capitalism caught up with Holman’s in 1980, and the Camborne site was scheduled for closure. Some of us were offered work in an aircraft factory in Gloucester, so rather than stay in Cornwall and scramble for work, we accepted the offer, packed our bags, and headed for the M5. Dowty Rotol—a name that carried weight in aerospace circles—was known for its precision engineering, especially in propellers and hydraulic systems. Their components flew on aircraft used by the Royal Family, which lent a certain hush to the shop floor, as if the parts themselves demanded decorum. I was on permanent nights, inspecting components as they came off the machines. The rhythm was steady: the machinists would produce their first-offs, and I’d measure every critical dimension against the drawings. No shortcuts. No assumptions. Just the quiet click of micrometers and the glow of the optical comparator. If the first-off was correct I would stamp the machinists work card which wa...

I went on to spend several years in PCA, the Portable Compressor Assembly , putting together various Air Recievers and the turntable chassis for the large towable compressors. The workshop was a linear space with an overhead crane servicing the entire floor. At the top of the shop hoses of various lengths and diameters were assembled, along with other smaller assemblies. Then the chassis were assembled and passed onto the engine and airend assembly, cooling and control, then finally the acoustic enclosure. There was an air of raucous camaraderie in PCA.   Frequent hoots of laughter at someone’s misfortune, running jokes about the chap who went to Lust -leigh for his honeymoon (though why that might be who knows, because it is often called one of the prettiest villages in England), the “library” held in a locker for general furtive perusal, the practical jokes such as thick grease injected into one of the wonderful pasties from the canteen and left for a hapless fellow to sink h...

In the workshop, my apprentice test pieces were waiting to be started. I had a stack of work to complete for my modules, but somehow couldn’t summon the momentum. I was nudged about my lack of progress which sowed a seed. I decided—on my own terms—to get the work done. I powered through and completed all of them in record time. Reggie Edwards asked  “Someone stuck a rocket up yer ass, boy?” Years later, in the boardrooms and site offices I remembered that moment. The rocket quip, the timing, and the fact that I’d moved when I was ready. I assumed others were built the same way. They just needed a nudge and they would move by their own volition. So I nudged. A note on a desk. A quiet suggestion in the corridor. A graph left visible in a meeting. I rarely instructed, though I could if I had to. I rarely barked, though I think I’d earned the right if necessary. Nudging felt more civilised. More human. And because I knew that the best compliance wasn’t coerced—it was chosen. ...

I was seventeen and had become rather religious, the fire-and-brimstone kind, preaching in the streets and bible study— but also youth group socials, tepid fruit squash, and acoustic choruses sung with conviction. That’s where I met Jim. Cerebral palsy, wheelchair-bound, speech that made you lean in. Many didn’t. I did. One afternoon, we got talking about the funfair that had rolled into Redruth—diesel fumes, neon lights, and the scent of fried onions. Jim said he’d love to go. I said I’d take him. No one stopped us. I wheeled him all the way from Gladys Holman to Redruth, through the park gates like we belonged. He pointed at the rifle stall. I fired. Missed. Then the coconut shy—he gestured, I threw. Missed again. But the stallholders, bless them, handed over prizes anyway. A soft toy, a plastic whistle. Not out of pity, but something quieter. Recognition, maybe. Or just a shared moment of kindness. Then Jim looked up at the big wheel. “Can we?” he asked, or something close t...

After the holidays dad took me down to Camborne and dropped me off in Redbrook Road where I was to lodge to start my 4-year apprenticeship. I joined the Holman Apprentice School in 1972. Holman Brothers was famous for its compressed air machinery, and drilling equipment used in mining and civil engineering across the globe. The firm had its own test mine, and even a rail link. The head of the apprentice school was Fred Oliver. Fred was a kind man who looked for the best in us all. We received a blend of classroom instruction and hands-on experience in the workshops. We studied every aspect of mechanical engineering and machining, at first with plenty of pre-HASAWA safety procedures. But when HASAWA hit industry in 1974 it didn’t just change rules—it changed attitudes. It shifted responsibility from just the employer to a shared duty of care , and it became the backbone of apprentice training, especially in engineering firms like Holman’s. Safety wasn’t just a box to tick—it was a c...

 By the time I was fourteen my parents had moved out of the sleepy village and into town and were contemplating another move into Devon so that my father could start a new job as a corn merchant, a semi-autonomous role that was a real step up the ladder for him. It was decided that when they left, I would go into lodgings so that I could stay in my school. I never really enjoyed school that much, certainly not secondary school. I tended towards disruptive behavior and smartassery and must have been a right trial for the teaching staff. For a while I was put into the remedial class, presumably as a kind of short sharp shock, an attempt to shame me into good behavior. Of course, it didn’t work because I found that in the remedial class, I was hilariously funny, much funnier than I was in the mainstream classroom and could create even more disruption than before. I stayed around for my CSEs which I think occurred before the easter break, but I didn’t go back to school after the east...

  My odd-length pins could create stresses—subtle but persistent—in the pelvis and back. Leaning on things helped shift the weight and temper the ache. I wasn’t picky: door frames, bollards, machinery, even startled classmates if they stood still long enough. Anything that offered a moment’s relief would do. At school, the craft workshop was a reliable sanctuary. It had lathes and drills, chisels and clamps, and—rather gloriously—a small gas forge. This forge relied on an electric blower fan to feed air to the flame. When both flame and fan were in full voice, conversation became an exercise in mime and shouting. A proper din. My metalwork project was a garden gate. Nothing fancy—just functional blacksmithing—but I’d designed two wrought iron scrolls to grace the top. Scrolls, it turns out, require finesse. You heat flat iron strips until they glow red, then bend them on a jig while the metal is malleable. Heating takes time. Time enough to lean. On this occasion, I chose the d...

Later in life I remember seasoned tradesmen scoffing when it was suggested they receive formal training in the use of ladders. “Used one since I was a lad,” they’d say, as if repetition were equivalent to rigour. And to be fair, if you've been using ladders without instruction for a few decades, you’ve likely learned the hard way what constitutes a safe angle and what doesn’t. Pain is a thorough teacher. But for the uninitiated—for the apprentice on his first rung—a few minutes of training could be the difference between a confident descent and a broken spine. Ladders are involved in more falls than any other workplace equipment, and falls from height remain the leading cause of fatal injuries at work. It’s remarkable, really, how much hazard hides behind common design. Take the bedpan—another simple tool. Misusing a bedpan might not kill you, but it can leave a dent in your pride that never quite buffs out. In hospitals, injuries aren’t always marked by broken bones; sometimes...