11 of 24 - The Nudge unit

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.

One afternoon in a project office, a senior manager lingered after a meeting. He was the kind who rarely spoke, preferring to observe. He approached with a book in hand—Nudge, by Thaler and Sunstein.

“You might enjoy this,” he said. “Reminds me of how you work.”

I took the book and thumbed the pages. It was all there—choice architecture, behavioural cues, the gentle art of steering without shouting. I didn’t need the theory to know the practice, but it was oddly satisfying to see it described in a book.

Where do you want these logs?

I had a van. It  was green, hand-painted with a brush that had seen better days. A Bedford CA, bought off a motorcycle outfit in Redruth, already several lives into its journey. The original cargo floor had long given up, replaced with a sheet of marine ply that lifted like a magic carpet when the wind caught it as I we drove up the Camborne Redruth bypass. My mate called it aerodynamic. I called it exhilarating.

I’d fitted a bench seat in the back, salvaged from a scrapyard. It wasn’t fixed—just placed there, like a pew in a chapel. No windows either, so if you sat back there, you had to peer over the shoulders of the front-seat passengers like a nosy neighbour at the fence. It was transport, just about. But it was also a stage, a laugh, a lesson in compromise.

My girlfriend and I took it to Kent once. The van hummed along, engine cover warm between us, gearstick jutting from the column. It wasn’t fast, but we made it there fine. It was the way back that undid us.

Driving back through London at night, we got lost. Properly lost. The city folded in on itself, signs pointing everywhere and nowhere. We circled roundabouts like moths around a lamp, hoping for a clue. Eventually, we pulled over and asked a policeman.

“Can you tell us how to get to the South West?” I said, thinking that was clear enough.

He looked at us, puzzled. “Whereabouts in the South West?” He must have been thinking “Putney? Battersea?”

“Redruth,” I said.

He shrugged. “Never heard of it.”

That was London. All roads led to it, but none seemed to lead out. It reminded me of the Cornish log seller who got an order from London. He set off, asking at every village, “Is this London?” When someone finally said yes, he nodded and said, “So where do you want these logs?”

That was us. Lost in London, carrying our own invisible cargo of hope, humour, and a bench seat with no fixings. The van didn’t mind. It had seen worse. It just kept going, creaking and humming, until eventually the signs began to make sense again. We found our way out, back to the South West, back to Redruth, back to something that felt like home.