• Everything Is Sales

    One of my first jobs was door-to-door double glazing sales. It was, hands down, the most brutal and formative experience I could’ve had at sixteen. Knock after knock, rejection after rejection—it was a baptism by fire. At the time, it scared me off the idea of “sales” altogether. I didn’t get that it was a numbers game, or that I could refine my pitch. I took every “no” personally, thought it meant I wasn’t good enough. But I was just too young to understand the psychology of it.

    Fast forward to now, and I actually like sales. I’ve become comfortable with it, even good at it. And what’s changed isn’t my script or my pitch—it’s my perspective. I’ve realised that everything in life is sales. If you’re not selling a product, you’re selling an idea, a decision, a feeling, a story.

    Think about it:

    • Negotiating with a grumpy toddler to put socks on? Sales.
    • Convincing your partner that it’s definitely their turn to cook? Sales.
    • Chatting to your boss about why a new idea is worth the risk? Sales.

    The trick is learning that sales isn’t about pushing something on someone. It’s about understanding what people actually want—sometimes better than they do—and helping them feel confident in the decision to go for it.

    We should be teaching the art of negotiation and basic sales psychology to 12- and 13-year-olds. Imagine a generation growing up not scared of rejection, not crumbling when someone says “no thanks,” but instead knowing how to read a room, how to listen, how to adjust, how to back themselves.

    It’s not just about creating better business leaders—it’s about creating more independent, emotionally intelligent people who can express what they want and find ways to make it work for others too.

    Because once you realise everything is sales, you stop fearing it—and start using it.

  • Measuring Goodbyes

    What happens when you start counting what really counts

    About four weeks ago—somewhere in the hazy early days of new parenthood—I picked up a book I’d been meaning to read: The Five Types of Wealth by Sahil Bloom. It sat next to our bed, within arm’s reach while the baby slept beside us. I thought it was a timely one. It was.

    In one part, Bloom talks about the moment he realised how few times he might see his parents again. Not in terms of years, but in visits. If they lived another 20 or 30 years, and he only saw them once or twice a year—well, do the maths. The number was alarmingly small. Finite. A countdown, not a horizon.

    That idea hasn’t left me.

    Now, in the quiet moments—when I’m pacing the dining table with our baby in my arms, or watching his chest rise and fall in sleep—I find myself doing my own mental sums.

    How many more Mother’s Days will my mum be here to receive flowers and eat pastries together?

    How many anniversaries with my wife will we get to spend exploring a new culture together—wandering along coastlines, ordering food we can’t pronounce, and sharing that feeling of being exactly where we’re meant to be?

    And maybe one day, how many more birthdays will I be part of for my son—before he’d rather spend it with his mates, with me in the background as chauffeu?

    It’s not just family. I think about friends too. I’ve already lost people I love. Some didn’t make it to their twenties. Others, not to their thirties. The idea that we’ve all got unlimited time is… generous at best. Who might not make their forties?

    Even the friends who are still here—how many times will we actually see each other again? Once a year? That means maybe five more catch-ups before life intervenes, or distance stretches too far, or… who knows?

    And what about us? My wife and I talk about living abroad—giving our child new languages, new worlds. But if we go, what happens to everyone else’s numbers? The grandparents, the godparents, the friends who might now only see us in photos or fleeting visits. How does our decision to move shift their remaining moments with us?

    It’s strange how something so simple—just thinking in terms of how many times instead of how many years—can change the entire texture of life.

    It doesn’t make me anxious. It makes me intentional.

    It reminds me to linger. To say yes more. To call back.

    To book the trip. To send the text. To pay attention.

    We all carry invisible countdowns. Most of them we’ll never see. But every once in a while, we get a glimpse. And when we do, we owe it to ourselves—and the people we love—to look straight at it and not turn away.

    These are the single-digit years.

    And they matter more than we think.

  • 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.

  • “You Wouldn’t Understand, You Don’t Have Children” — And Now I Do.

    There’s a phrase that used to make my skin crawl.

    “You wouldn’t understand — you don’t have children.”

    It always felt like the highest form of condescension. Dismissive. Wounding. As though empathy was something you either earned through parenthood or didn’t possess at all. As if my experiences, my capacity to care, or my exhaustion didn’t count.

    Worse still, it ignored something deeper: that not everyone without children chose that. That for many, it’s a source of grief, not a lifestyle. And so that phrase, delivered casually in conversation, could be so unconstructive. Even hurtful.

    And yet — five weeks into being a father, I now understand where that sentiment comes from. Not the delivery of it. But the deeper truth it’s trying — and often failing — to communicate.

    Because something happens — something huge. You go from being an autonomous adult with your own rhythm, overlapping with your partner’s, to suddenly… everything changing. You walk into a hospital as two people. You walk out as three. And your entire world flips.

    Every minute of every day is now tied to this tiny human. Your brain doesn’t just shift — it rewires. Priorities you thought were non-negotiable suddenly feel less urgent. Work, emails, even basic things like meals and sleep — they get squeezed to the edges while you deal with this immediate, constant, beautiful chaos.

    And it’s not a choice — it’s instinct. A complete internal shift you can’t pre-empt or fully imagine until it’s happening to you.

    So no, I’d never say “you wouldn’t understand” to someone. I know how alienating that can be. I’d try something more honest. Like:

    “There are things about parenthood that don’t land until you’re in the trenches — not because you lack empathy, but because your whole frame of reference changes overnight. I didn’t get it before either.”

    It’s humbling, this shift. And I think if I ever talk about it with someone on the other side of it — the ‘before’ side — I’ll do so with a lot more softness than I was once shown.

    Because now I see both sides. And that perspective’s taken me by surprise.

  • 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.

  • Parental Evolution

    Becoming somebody’s beginning is something that nothing in life can prepare you for.

    I’m so aware of how unoriginal this experience is—billions of people have done it, are doing it—but it’s also the most personal thing I’ve ever lived through. That contradiction is wild. It’s ordinary, but it’s cosmic.

    My wife and I were saying the other day how fast the first six weeks of our son’s life have gone. But at the same time, it feels like we’ve never really lived without him. Like he’s always been here, folded into the shape of who we were, slowly emerging.

    People gave me all kinds of advice. Everyone has their version of what it’s going to be like. The most vivid one I remember is someone saying, “It’s like a grenade goes off in your bedroom.” Which… fair. But also: a bleak metaphor.

    I prefer to think of it as an evolution.
    Kind of like a Pokémon.

    You and your partner evolve almost overnight—from some final form of adulthood you thought you’d reached—into something new. Something nobody else can quite train you for. You become a person who a human being needs to survive. Not just survive, but to become whole.

    If you don’t do right by them, they won’t thrive.
    They’ll be hungry, or cold, or feel alone in a world that’s supposed to feel warm and held.

    So you do it all. Feed them. Clean them. Dress them. Entertain them. Read the instructions of the world and try to translate it into something soft and safe. You think about everything in their life—and somehow, you try not to get too caught up in the future.

    You live in the moment, even when it’s two in the morning and you’ve forgotten what day it is.

    It’s just such a beautifully complex situation for one of the most tried, tested, and ancient experiences in the history of humankind.

    And still, it feels like something brand new.
    Because it’s ours.

  • Speaking Into the Future

    A few years ago, I heard Mark Cuban on Tim Ferriss’ podcast say that if he were advising kids on what field to go into, it would be voice engineering. At the time, I didn’t buy it. Voice tech felt clunky. Siri misunderstood me more often than not, and shouting commands into the void never felt like the future.

    But then something shifted.

    Holding my newborn baby at 10pm — hands full, mind racing, and typing just isn’t an option. I opened ChatGPT and just talked. Thoughts poured out like I was speaking to a friend. And it worked. It didn’t just transcribe — it understood. It was fast, fluid, and surprisingly nuanced. Suddenly, Mark’s prediction didn’t seem so far-fetched.

    My phone immediately feels less tool, more companion.

    Typing, for all its precision, now feels sluggish. Voice, on the other hand, is catching up to how we think — spontaneous, layered, imperfect. Tools like ChatGPT and Plaud are collapsing the space between thought and expression. They’re not perfect, but in the chaos of real life — especially when caring for a newborn — they feel like a breakthrough.

    And it made me wonder: if voice is finally arriving, what’s next?

    Maybe it’s thought.

    Not as metaphor, but as interface — actual brain-to-device connection. Neuralink are proving silent, seamless interaction. It still sounds like science fiction, but it’s closer than we think. And when voice starts to feel like friction, the next step is to eliminate even that.

    I keep reflecting on these moments at night. One arm around my child, the other speaking into the future. Not typing. Not clicking. Just talking. And realising: this isn’t just a new interface — it’s a shift in how we think, capture, and create.

    Maybe Mark was right after all.

  • Original thought is so overrated

    Somewhere along the line — probably in school — we were taught that the most valuable thing we could offer the world is something original. A fresh idea. A new angle no one’s thought of before.

    And that belief has stuck. We glorify originality in business, writing, tech, even intelligence. We think if it’s not completely new, it’s not worth doing.

    I think that’s nonsense.

    Not because new ideas don’t matter — they do — but because chasing originality stops most people from ever starting. We overthink. “Hasn’t this already been done?” “Someone’s said this better.” So we stall.

    But the truth is, most of what actually works isn’t original. It’s better. It’s clearer, more useful, more accessible. It builds on what’s already there.

    Steve Jobs didn’t invent the graphical interface — he refined what Xerox built.
    Google wasn’t the first search engine — it was just the fastest, cleanest, and most accurate. Facebook wasn’t the first social network — it just nailed exclusivity, identity, and virality. iPod wasn’t the first MP3 player — it was just the one that actually made sense to use. Atomic Habits didn’t invent habit psychology — it just made it stick.

    This is the stuff that lands. Not originality — execution.

    So here’s the better approach:

    Don’t try to be the first. Be the one who makes it clearer, simpler, faster, smarter. Be the one who actually gets it done.

    We don’t need more geniuses.
    We need more people doing work that they love — even if it’s been done before.

  • 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.