• The Sanctity Of Small Routines

    In a world that feels like it’s permanently spinning just a bit too fast, the smallest routines can feel like sacred acts.

    I’m talking about the coffee you make for your partner each morning, half-asleep but still reaching for the coffee pods before they’ve opened their eyes. The pint with your dad in the same corner of the same pub, before kickoff. The walk with your colleague at lunch, tracing the same stretch of the Thames no matter the weather.

    They’re not big. They’re not revolutionary. But they matter.

    Because the world today is chaos dressed up as convenience. Everything’s available. Nothing’s grounded. Our attention is a currency we’re spending recklessly on things that do not give a single shit about us. The algorithm doesn’t care if you’re lonely. The endless scroll won’t hold your hand when life cracks open.

    And yet we let it in, constantly. Like moths to the light.

    So these tiny rituals? They’re rebellion. They’re resistance. They’re deeply, quietly human.

    If you rewind just a few decades—before the avalanche of content, before phones became appendages—life was defined by routine. You knew the rhythm. Friday: Top Of The Pops with fish and chips. Saturday: football. Sunday: roast then The Simpsons. Monday: EastEnders at 8PM. You weren’t just surviving. You were participating in a kind of secular liturgy with millions of Brits. You belonged to something, even if it was just a pattern. And that had weight. It had meaning.

    Now? Everything’s a blur. Every app wants to be your new home. Every platform wants to colonise your time. And in all of that noise, it’s these small, self-defined moments of routine that whisper: you’re still here. You’re still a person.

    I’m not writing this to help you. I’m writing this because I had to. I needed to say it out loud. Maybe because I’m trying to remind myself, too.

    Forge your own rhythm. Mark out your own minutes in the day that no one can steal from you. They don’t have to be profound. They just have to be yours and you have to turn up for them.

    Because without them, you’ll get swallowed.

  • On the Importance of Words 1

    I think about words a lot. Not just what we say, but how we say it, when we say it, and most importantly, why.

    It’s something I come back to often when I’m writing anything meaningful – whether that’s an email, a WhatsApp message, a pitch… The act of writing gives us space. We can think, self-censor, edit. I can optimise every word until I’ve shaped what I believe is the best possible version of what I want to say. It’s incredibly intentional.

    But speaking? That’s a different beast entirely.

    When I speak, in real-time conversations or voice dictation, there’s barely enough space to think beyond the next few seconds. Maybe a little longer if I’m lucky – helped along by filler words or pauses – but it’s fast-thinking by nature. Reacting more than crafting, drawing on what I’ve said and heard before.

    Daniel Kahneman’s Thinking, Fast and Slow lays this out perfectly: System 1 thinking is quick, instinctive, emotional. System 2 is slow, deliberate, logical. Most of my writing happens in System 2. But the most important conversations usually happen in System 1.

    That contrast hit me recently during a negotiation that, if I’m honest, has been seven years in the making. It’s a partnership I could only have dreamed of when I first started the company. I’ve been incredibly patient – careful to build trust, maintain the relationship, and not push too hard. This company in question is synonymous with our industry. What they’ve done represents tens of millions of dollars in development and years of a head start that we simply couldn’t afford to replicate. But because of the strength of the relationship, we’re now on the brink of working together in a way that could fundamentally shift what’s possible for us.

    Just over a year ago, an enormous Fortune 500 company pipped us to the post. I remember the call when our ally at this company phoned up and cautioned me that a press release was imminent. “That’s fine,” I choked. As is often the way with larger companies, a budget cycle later and their work in this space has been sidelined. Their partnership is on ice.

    Once the dust had settled, I went again. After years I could feel the timing was indeed different. I was finally asked to lay out what we wanted. So I did – and I didn’t hold back. I wrote a full view of how we could win together, including one particular request: exclusivity. I knew it was a big ask, but from my side, it wasn’t about dominating – it was about reducing risk. Earning something defensible.

    The CEO pushed back, as I half-expected. So I suggested we jump on a call.

    Here’s where the difference between fast and slow thinking came into play. I didn’t go in with a line to hold. I didn’t say, “We need exclusivity or we walk.” I just talked honestly about the real concern. If we go all-in on integrating their technology and someone else comes in later with more leverage or volume, we’re toast. Our entire effort could be marginalised. And if that happens, we’re fucked.

    You could feel the shift in the conversation. It clicked.

    Suddenly, we weren’t debating the word “exclusivity” anymore. We were problem-solving together. Within minutes, they were offering ways to give us the protections we needed – effectively solving the same issue, but in a way that worked for both sides.

    What struck me afterwards was how close we came to missing that breakthrough – all because of a word. If I’d stuck to slow-thinking, writing carefully worded emails, trying to make the case from a distance, we might have missed the moment entirely. But speaking honestly, and trusting the relationship, gave space for something better.

    There’s a risk with slow thinking – you can over-optimise, over-edit, and lose the human part. Sometimes it’s better to stop hiding behind carefully crafted words and just get on a call, look someone in the eye (or at least the camera), and say what you mean.

    Because at the end of the day, the words matter.
    But the why behind them matters even more.

  • You’re The Tip Of An Iceberg

    Let’s go back 20 generations. That’s roughly 500 years – give or take – depending on how early people started having children in your family tree. We’re talking Tudors, plagues, revolutions, the whole lot.

    You start with 2 parents.
    Then 4 grandparents.
    Then 8 great-grandparents.
    Then 16 great-great-grandparents.
    Then 32 great-great-great-grandparents.
    Then 64 great-great-great-great-grandparents.
    Then 128 great-great-great-great-great-grandparents.
    Then 256 great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents.
    Then 512 great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandparents.
    Then 1,024 ancestors 10 generations back – roughly 300 years ago.
    Then 2,048 from 11 generations ago.
    Then 4,096 at 12 generations.
    8,192 at 13.
    16,384 at 14.
    32,768 at 15.
    65,536 at 16.
    131,072 at 17.
    262,144 at 18.
    524,288 at 19.
    And finally… 1,048,576 ancestors, 20 generations back – around 500 years ago.

    Over a million people. Just in that one generation. And if you add up all the ancestors from generation 1 to 20, the number’s even bigger – over two million in total.

    Of course, it’s not quite that simple. People married cousins, villages were small, and sometimes family trees loop back on themselves. It’s called pedigree collapse (a weird name, but a real thing). Still, it’s wild to think that over a million separate lives might have shaped yours – genetically, culturally, geographically.

    99.99% of them we’ll never even know the names of. But they’re all in there somewhere. Each one adding a line to the story that ended up with you.

  • New Beginnings and Familiar Returns

    It’s been over a decade since I last wrote something that wasn’t tied to work. Not a proposal, not a self-promotional post, not a carefully worded strategic email. Just putting thoughts into words—for no reason other than to figure out what I think. The kind of words that don’t need to justify themselves. That don’t have an end goal. That just feel worth getting out of your head.

    Back in the earlier days of my career, I found blogging to be a kind of outlet. I had several websites, wrote the odd guest article, and used the space to stretch beyond 180 characters and try out new ideas—some half-formed, some attention seeking, some that still make sense now.

    Over time, like a lot of things, that habit faded. Life and work moved forward. Writing became more instrumental. Everything became more “on-message.” And that’s fine—it’s part of the territory. But something gets lost when every sentence has to be justifiable and re-enforce your persona. The joy of simply reflecting—without needing to prove anything—quietly disappears.

    And so here I am, starting again. Not for clicks. Not to build a “personal brand.” Just to reconnect with that slightly freer part of myself that used to enjoy writing for its own sake.

    This time around, though, the context is different. I’m writing (or more accurately, dictating) this while doing laps slowly around our dining table. It’s late at night. My wife is in our bedroom, trying to bank a few hours of sleep. And I’m holding our newborn son in one arm while The Simpsons plays softly in the background—more for me than for him.

    I am shattered. I am frayed. I am more present than ever. And yet I have the desire to express and store my ideas in the beautiful time capsule that is the internet. Perhaps eradicating hours a day of scrolling Twitter/X has freed up some mental capacity in me to create, alongside my newfound responsibilities.

    Becoming a dad is a strange and enormous shift. My experience is obviously not unique—it’s happened billions of times throughout history. But it’s entirely personal to me. I wasn’t sure if we’d have children. I had, at one point, reached a kind of peace with the idea that maybe we wouldn’t. And now here he is. A whole new human being, half-asleep in my arms, changing everything.

    I’m only just beginning to understand the outer edges of what that means. The shock of frustration I didn’t know I could feel. The deep infatuation that shows up in strange moments. The surreal exhaustion and beauty of it all. It’s early days, and I know I’ll look back at this from some future vantage point and see just how little I knew—but I want to capture this moment while I’m in it. Because it already feels fleeting—something that will be hard to hold onto and truly relive later.

    And maybe that’s what this blog is for. Not to write about parenthood necessarily, or about work, or about anything in particular. But just to record the thoughts that pass through in this season of life. To make sense of the changes. The evolution. To leave some kind of breadcrumb trail I can return to later.

    Some posts might be short. Some might go nowhere. Some might contradict others. But that’s part of it. I want this to be a space where I don’t have to think about what others think.

    I still look back at old blog posts and cringe a little, but also smile. There’s something oddly satisfying about recognising the younger version of yourself and how you used to think. Maybe I’ll do the same with this one day—look back from my 50s and marvel at how raw and weird and lovely this season was.

    For now, though, I’m just here. Writing again. Starting over. Holding a small boy who’s barely a month old, and re-learning how to put my thoughts into words—not for anyone else, but for me.

    Let’s see where it goes.