A working-class man who built things
My father was an aircraft engineer. A London taxi driver for 35 years. A magistrate. A man who used his hands, served his community, and never stopped showing up.
In 2008 — two weeks before my finals at Kingston University — he had a motorcycle accident. Paralysed. I stopped everything. Ten years as his carer. I built him a bespoke disabled bedroom and wetroom from scratch. Fourteen-hour days for fourteen months. Then went back and finished my degree.
He died after eleven years. I was there for every one of them.
That shaped everything that came after. The ability to build what needs building. The refusal to abandon ship. The understanding that real care is proven through action, not words.
Our family also lost generational farmland to inheritance tax. It wasn't a business thesis that brought me to this problem. It was a wound.