16 of 24 Back on the tools

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 drawing pins, dust, dried mud, and calendars that had been crudely annotated. It was industrial archaeology, really—every cabin a capsule of temporary civilization.

The toilet blocks were something else entirely. Inside, they were manageable, if you ignored the occasional excreta Picasso smeared onto the melamine panels. But underneath—ah, the sumps. Those rank reservoirs of chemical fluid, sat idle too long and warmed by the sun, had become teeming breeding grounds. Drain fly larvae—not just a few but a collective frenzy—writhed in grey-brown profusion. Thousands. Probably millions.

I had to pump the mess out. The smell alone was orchestral. I didn’t throw up—I don’t know how I didn’t—but it felt like my whole nervous system tried to. Somewhere in my head, a small voice whispered about digital artistry and luminous pixel clouds. I told it to shut up and fetched the pump.

The Flash That Wasn’t

I’ve worked out of several construction company offices over the years, but Kingston upon Thames—south-west London—was the busiest in terms of the traffic. It was biblical. Driving in London requires what I came to call the London Driving Mindset: a cocktail of vigilance, calculation, and brassneckery. Eyes must be everywhere—mirrors, cyclists, pedestrians, buses, and the occasional rogue BMW with over-tinted windows. To get anywhere in reasonable time, you must be assertive but not reckless. Claim your space, but be prepared to submit.

For those of us raised on rural niceties—giving way, waving others through, letting someone cross your path to turn right—the London approach is a shock to the system. Drivers there can be aggressive, pushy, selfish. It takes time to get in the zone, to adopt just enough of the necessary aggression without losing your soul.

One winter evening, as the light drained from the sky and the office emptied behind me, I began the long drive home. My first challenge: turning right across a steady stream of oncoming commuters, none of whom seemed inclined to waste time on generosity or mercy. I waited. And waited. The seconds stretched. My indicator ticked on like a metronome.

Then—at last—a flicker of hope. The approaching car flashed its headlights. A signal, I thought. A gesture of grace. I pulled across, grateful, relieved. But the car didn’t slow. It kept coming. And then—impact. A crunch, a jolt, the kind of collision that’s more shame than shrapnel. Both cars were still drivable, though dented in pride and panel.

I suggested to the other driver—an elderly lady—that we limp to our nearby yard and call the police, letting the traffic resume its evening pilgrimage. She agreed, flustered but composed.

When the officers arrived, they spoke to us both. After a short while, one came over and said they wouldn’t be pursuing any action against me. It was, from their perspective, an insurance matter. The old lady had been very apologetic. She’d confessed that her handbag had become entangled with the control stalk on the steering wheel, inadvertently flashing her headlights. I had interpreted it as a friendly “go ahead.” It wasn’t.

I drove home slowly that night, replaying the moment. The flicker of light. The decision. The collision. It struck me how much of driving—of life, really—is about reading signals. Some are clear. Some are ambiguous. And some, like that flash, are pure accident.

In site safety, clarity isn’t a luxury—it’s the difference between order and accident. A signal, however well-meant, is only as safe as its interpretation. That winter evening in Kingston taught me that ambiguity doesn’t need complexity. It just needs a sender and a receiver not quite aligned. On site, we rely on gestures, alarms, protocols—but unless we know they’re understood, we’re gambling. The flash of a light, the nod of a head, the beep of a reversing truck—each carries weight. And when the meaning slips, so can everything else.