From Cornwall to the Middle East, by accident

Empty nest syndrome doesn’t discriminate. Our children had long flown, and the settled routine of life had begun to grate—not unhappiness, just a slow itch of boredom. One day, driving down the motorway, we both felt it: a psychic click, a shifting of tectonic plates. We looked at each other and asked, “Did you feel that?” Soon after that in early 2013, out of the blue, an email arrived from an old friend and colleague. He asked if I knew any safety person who might want to join him working in Doha. We ummed and ahhed, and decided to set the fates a challenge. If we could complete a crossword in a long-owned puzzle book, we’d go. We chose a page number based on the salary I would earn in Doha. We worked through the clues, slowly, stubbornly. After an hour, we were stumped on the very last clue: gear item (anag) (8). Then, as if summoned, the solution revealed itself. Emigrate. It hit us like a lump hammer. The word hummed with intent and upheaval—unequivocal, scary, final. Like t...

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...