From Cornwall to the Middle East, by accident

  The Spider and the Abyss I am enjoying my retirement and have more time now to look around me. One morning I stepped out into the garden and stood close to a spider’s web. On the fence is a jasmine, about six horizontal feet from the nearest twig of the crab apple tree that stands in the middle of the garden. Suspended five foot in the air between these two points was a spider’s web, sporting the familiar circular net at its centre, complete with an attentive spider. What was most remarkable were the anchor silks. One silk thread led from the jasmine to a twig in the apple tree, slightly higher than the central net. Midway along its length, a second thread branched off—forming another edge of the web’s frame and extending back across to the jasmine. A third anchor silk descended to a lower twig on the jasmine, completing the triangle. The structure was astonishing—not just in its geometry, but in its execution. How did the spider, so small and seemingly unequipped for surve...

Back to the national construction company After several years during which I worked in Qatar for a consultant and co-ran my own safety consultancy in the UK, Insight Safety, I re-joined the group and was offered the senior safety role in Dubai with dozens of officers, high-profile builds, and a safety culture still finding its footing. It was here, amid the dust and heat, that I realised just how far I’d come from those early mornings in Cheltenham. The work demanded not just technical oversight but cultural fluency, logistical coordination, and the ability to navigate layered hierarchies—contractors, consultants, and clients, each with their own expectations and interpretations of “safe practice.” It was a place where heat, haste, and hierarchy collided daily, and where the margin for error was often razor-thin. One of the projects I worked on involved very deep trenching—deeper than anything I’d seen in the UK. Unsupported, but properly and safely stepped, carved into compacted...

  The Flowering Bush Qatar is a desert country. In Doha, the city blooms—palms and bougainvillea tended by an army of gardeners, irrigation lines humming beneath the pavements. But out in the suburbs and beyond, bushes are rare and trees even rarer. The land reverts to dust and rock, broken only by pylons and the occasional discarded tyre. One day as I was driving between sites I spotted a large bush flowering beside the road. Delicate white blossoms were scattered like confetti across the sand. It was such a lovely sight—unexpected, magical. I pulled off the road and drove across the gravel to get a closer look. I wound down the window and leaned out, peering at the flowers, admiring their grace against the grit. Then I sensed movement—an energetic commotion from inside the bush. A moment later, an Indian gentleman emerged, adjusting his trousers with brisk efficiency. He had, presumably, been relieving himself in the privacy of this rare and handy bush. And now, from his ...