From Cornwall to the Middle East, by accident

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. ...