🧒 Early 1980s — Laindon, Essex: The Wonder Years

I grew up in a house in Laindon, Essex — a place that still lives vividly in my mind, stitched together by the textures of green carpet, orange sofas, and the hum of a big boiler in the kitchen. It was a time of discovery, mischief, and mechanical curiosity.

The living room had a brown sofa, a fireplace, and a TV with a top-loading VCR and a chunky remote that felt like a spaceship control. A fish tank bubbled quietly near the wooden stairs, and the wallpaper had sails that seemed to drift across the walls. My bedroom had a lampshade with planes — or at least I think it did — and a wooden toy plane that I flew across imaginary skies.

The Acorn Electron was my gateway to computing. It lived in the “computer room,” alongside a little keyboard and piano. I remember bunk beds, Meccano sets, and science kits in the utility room — experiments with thunder, batteries, springs, and chocolate coins. Mum’s drawers were full of mysterious treasures: paper clips, a calculator, and things that sparked curiosity.

Dad had a hi-fi system that felt like magic, and a shed where I played with worms and the hose. The greenhouse grew grapes, the pear tree shaded the compost heap, and the rubber plant stood proudly in the corner. The back garden was a world of bonfires, fireworks, and BMX adventures — including the time I crashed through the garden wall because I didn’t know how to stop.

Sue’s room was a wonderland of records, smelly stickers, and a toy sweet shop. Across the road lived our uncle and aunt, and just beyond them was my primary school — close enough to hear the bell from the front room. Christmas trees lit up the house each year, and the blanket box where I’d once had my nappies changed became a quiet corner for reflection.

The kitchen had retro drinking glasses, a pine breakfast table, and that big noisy boiler that seemed to have a personality of its own. Mum’s huge freezer was a fortress of frozen wonders, and her scientific calculator was a symbol of precision and care. We cooked together often — simple meals, big memories.

There was a pet rabbit, a cat, and a sense that everything had its place: the orange fireplace, the wooden workbench, the matching wallpaper and bins. It was a home filled with warmth, curiosity, and the kind of everyday magic that stays with you forever.

All that was about to change forever.

🏡 1987 — Mevagissey & St Mewan: A Year of Transitions

In 1987, we moved to Cornwall. Initially, my mum and I moved to a B&B in Mevagissey — a quiet Cornish fishing village with winding streets and salty air. I remember Mum, always resourceful, navigating life with her red Ford Sierra. Sometimes we’d walk to the phone box to call Dad, who was still in Essex. It was a year of change, and I felt it deeply. It wasn’t long before we moved to a cottage in Sticker.

I went to school in St Mewan, where things didn’t come easily. I struggled with the basics — times tables felt like riddles, and I often felt behind. One day, I forgot my PE kit and was made to do the lesson in just my underpants — a punishment that stuck with me far longer than the embarrassment. I had a teacher whose name I’ve long forgotten, though I do remember the board rubber that once flew in my direction. Not exactly a warm welcome.

But there were moments of pride too. I built a wooden stool in class — a simple project made from scrap wood — and brought it home like a trophy. It became part of our house, a small symbol of something I’d made with my own hands.

There were other small comforts. Jacket potatoes after swimming. Reduced cakes from ASDA. A friend named Andy. And the quiet presence of Mum, holding it all together.

🍂 1988–1989 — The Colliford Years: Chaos, Curiosity & Change

Between 1988 and 1989, I was 9 going on 10 — curious, energetic, and living in the middle of a whirlwind. Dad had moved to Cornwall and bought the Colliford Tavern — a sprawling pub, campsite, and function venue tucked into the countryside. It became a strange and fascinating backdrop to my childhood: part playground, part mystery, part emotional minefield.

I spent time at Trewoon Village Hall, building treehouses and chasing freedom in the woods. But home life was complicated. Mum and Dad were splitting up, and I was just old enough to feel the tension, even if I didn’t fully understand it.

The Colliford itself was a wonderland of distractions. I spent hours playing with the disco equipment, fascinated by the lights, faders, and speakers. There were fruit machines too — not for gambling, but for the sheer joy of understanding how they worked. I’d tinker with them in the garage, alongside radios, wires, and whatever electronics I could get my hands on. Mum would often moan about the mess — wires everywhere, impossible to vacuum around.

That year, I got my hands on an Amiga 500. I was obsessed with Rainbow Islands — and occasionally rage-quit when things didn’t go my way.

There were quieter moments, too. Tarot cards and an Ouija board with Mum — both of us spooked by the old well at Colliford. We picked blackberries down the lane, near the metal sign, the bus company, and the top field by the factory. I remember the feeling that the world was both expanding and unravelling at the same time.

My bedroom was my retreat — wires, gadgets, and the occasional telling-off from Mum. But it was mine. A space to build, to escape, to dream.

🚴1991–1995 — Camelford: Teen Experiments, Tech Obsessions & Tangled Emotions

Between 1991 and 1995, I was living in Camelford. Mum and Dad had officially split, and Mum was now with my stepdad, Brian. I was 12, navigating the awkward terrain between childhood and adolescence. Down at the bottom of the garden sat a shed — my hideaway, my lab, my escape. It was where I’d go to tinker, think, and sometimes just be alone.

There were low times. Loneliness crept in, especially in the quiet moments. But then Nan gave me a book on self-hypnosis, and something clicked. It sparked my lifelong interest in psychology — not just how the mind works, but how we shape our own experience of the world.

School had its moments. I spent lunchtimes on the BBC computers, letting other kids play the games I’d brought in. I sold Amiga disks on business day, and in music class, I remember Jeff Woods, our teacher — and the time I cranked the keyboard volume to max and ran off. Classic.

Outside of school, I cycled everywhere — to Hengar Manor, St. Tudy, and St. Breward. Those rides were freedom. Sometimes solo, sometimes with friends, always with a sense of exploration. At St. Tudy, we’d sneak into the inn, play the fruit machine, drink cheap beer, and walk home under the stars. Nearby, at a holiday park, we once watched a hypnotist perform on stage — and I remember wondering if I could learn to do that too.

My Amiga 1000 was my pride and joy — until I connected something wrong and filled the room with smoke. I had an Action Replay MK2, a hard disk, and a growing obsession with sound. I played with speakers, amps, and my Sony hi-fi, always chasing the perfect setup.

There were weekly visits to Dad, bike rides with friends, and hangouts at Hengar Manor. One friend lived in Tintagel, another took me to banger racing. At 14, my yellow racing bike was stolen — a gut punch. At 15, I broke my elbow. At 16, I had mates with a Fiat Uno, and we’d stretch our freedom as far as we could.

I swam often — thanks to my school gold card — and there was a school disco where We Didn’t Start the Fire blasted through the speakers, and I felt like the world was both on fire and wide open.

My sister had a yellow moped we jokingly called “The Chicken Chaser.” Camelford was messy, magical, and formative. It was where I learned to build, break, and begin again.

🛵 1997 — Camelford: First Wheels, First Jobs, First Sparks

By 1997, I was 16 going on 17 — restless, resourceful, and riding the edge of adulthood. I’d just finished school and started at St Austell College, commuting daily from Camelford on a bus that took over an hour each way via Wadebridge. I studied accounting, business studies, and computing, though truthfully, I had no clear goals. I spent more time in the college computer room, skiving off and poking around on DOS-based 386 PCs than I did in lectures. This was my first step into C programming using the Borland Turbo C DOS compiler. At home, I was busy making demos and simple games with AMOS, which rocked!

Back home, life was a patchwork of odd jobs and new freedoms. I worked at Sleeps, the local agricultural shop, and cleaned caravans at Juliet’s Well Holiday Park and later in Bude — where I had my first proper nights out and met my first girlfriend. I’d been doing a paper round for Hawkins since I was 13 — a gruelling 6am start in the dark and rain, cycling the hilly country lanes with a bag full of newsprint.

That year, I got my first motorbike — a Honda H100 — and it felt like everything changed. I even bought a second scrap motorbike for parts, learning to repair and maintain my own ride with a mix of trial, error, and stubborn determination. I had wheels, independence, and a growing sense of who I was. I hung out at the pub with friends, helped out at Sue and Stan’s restaurant, and occasionally crossed paths with the Bridge Patrol — the rough kids who loitered around the bridge in Camelford.

I was deep into DIY electronics, building homemade speakers and experimenting with sound. One of my proudest creations — an 18” speaker — was effectively stolen by some kids who never paid me for it. Around the same time, my bike helmet was nicked, but Stan came to the rescue, as he often did.

There were tech dances in Newquay — college-organized nights out where we’d hit the nightclub, feel grown-up for a few hours, and feed coins into the 2p slot machines in the arcades. I hung out with a few college mates — some already living independently — and got a glimpse of what life might look like beyond Camelford. Hengar Manor was still a hangout spot, full of optimism and excitement.

Camelford in ’97 was messy, loud, and full of motion. It was the year I started chasing freedom — on two wheels, through speakers, and across the moors.

🏚️ 1998 — 1999 The Bedsit: Leaks, Late Nights & Learning to Stand Alone

In 1998, I was 17 moved out of home and freshly out of college, stepping into the working world. I started out packing meat at St. Merryn Meats, bought my first car — a white 1988 E-reg Astra Club — and moved out of home into a bedsit. The place was rough: the ceiling leaked constantly thanks to dodgy plumbing in the bathroom upstairs. But it was mine.

I had a Belling cooker, and that’s where I started teaching myself to cook. Nothing fancy, but enough to feel self-sufficient. It was the kind of place where you learned fast — how to fix things, how to stretch a budget, how to make a space your own.

My next job was in an arcade in Newquay, and it marked my first hands-on experience repairing electronics for a living. I was in charge most of the time — fixing machines, giving out change, and keeping order. The pool room upstairs was part of the arcade, and while it had a good Newquay vibe, it also attracted a crowd of naughty school kids who were only a couple of years younger than me. I spent plenty of time telling them off when things got out of hand.

I’d grab Warrens pies or cross the road for something hot, and the jukebox — always on free play — blasted out 90s indie records that became the soundtrack to my evenings.

When the arcade closed that September, I transitioned into a new role as a mobile amusement machine technician. I drove around the Cornish countryside, exchanging and repairing out-of-order machines for the company. It was a big step — more responsibility, more travel, and a deeper dive into the world of electronics and independence.

A big influence on my direction was to come from a guy named Terry whom I worked with. He was a genuine electronics and software whizz (or so it seemed to me at the time). He made his own coin mech programmer that could read and write eeproms. One afternoon I asked him if he coukd get some old slot machine reels connected to a PC. He didn’t dissapoint and within days he was showing me what was possible, while I was taking down notes and making plans.

It was messy, noisy, and a little rough around the edges, but it was also a time of freedom, discovery, and figuring things out one day at a time.

⚡ 2000 — St Austell: The Turning Point

By 2000, I was back working in the meat factory in St Austell. The money was decent, and with the seasonal amusement industry in hibernation, it was the most practical option. But the work was grim — repetitive, cold, and emotionally draining. I knew I didn’t want to stay there long.

I had upgraded to a PC at home and bought a Maplins ISA card, on which I had designed a QBASIC (I couldn’t afford a C compiler) fruit-machine, complete with stepper motor reel controls. It worked (just about) and I was proud of myself. I could see what possibilities lie ahead.

Then one day, everything changed. I met a guy who was picking up seasonal shifts — he was studying on a foundation course at university. Something about that conversation lit a fire in me. I realised, instantly and instinctively, that I wanted to go to university to study electronics — not just for the qualification, but so I could build and design amusement machines myself.

By the end of that very day, I’d managed to get through to the tutor in charge of admissions and secured a place on a foundation course, backed by a student loan. It was a bold move, but it felt right. I had a few months left in the factory — just enough time to finish the job, grit my teeth through the last shifts, and prepare for the next chapter.

Soon, I was heading to Plymouth University, leaving behind the noise and numbness of the factory floor for something full of possibility. It was the first real turning point — the moment I stopped drifting and started designing my future.

🎓 2000–2006 — From Circuits to Soundtracks: Engineering, Amusements & Reinvention

In September 2000, I enrolled on a foundation course in engineering at Plymouth University — a decision sparked by a chance encounter in a meat factory and a deep desire to design amusement machines. By 2001, I was fully immersed in Computer Systems Engineering, diving into hardware, software, and everything in between.

The second year (2002) pushed me further into the technical depths, but it was 2003 — my work placement year — that truly lit the fuse. I joined Cromptons Leisure International, where I helped design real-world amusement machines. I worked on a rolling dice betting game, experimented with magnetic patterns, and controlled a scanner using Linux for the first time. I coded with libSDL, designed circuit boards, and programmed microcontrollers — all while absorbing the thrill of seeing ideas come to life.

That year also brought trips to Japan, Spain, and the USA, expanding my horizons and feeding my curiosity.

In 2004, I graduated with a First Class Honours degree from Plymouth. I continued working with Cromptons remotely during my final year, even had a machine set up in my back room — a personal lab of sorts.

By early 2005, I’d moved to a bedsit in Broadstairs, Kent. That December, Cromptons folded, and I pivoted quickly — buying a three-storey Victorian house in Dover and starting work at Harry Levy Amusements. The house was a project in itself: old, worn, and in need of serious TLC. I threw myself into the refurbishment, learning as I went — plumbing, wiring, sanding, painting. It was hands-on, exhausting, and deeply satisfying.

In 2006, I made a big decision: I left the amusements industry, sensing it was in terminal decline. I joined Megger, and it was a breath of fresh air — a fantastic job that reignited my passion for engineering.

To help fund the house renovation, I launched a mobile disco and karaoke business on weekends. I’d haul gear, light up dance floors, and often end the night with a stop at the local kebab shop — tired, buzzing, and proud of the hustle.

💡 2007–2011 — Second Turning Point: From Firmware to PHP, Debt to Disco

By 2007, I was deep into my role at Megger, writing firmware in C and building applications in C++ using Rhapsody’s model-based UML tools. I was expanding my skills in circuit design within the test and measurement industry, and helped develop a range of portable appliance testers — products that, remarkably, are still on sale more than 15 years later.

But behind the scenes, life was tight. I was still refurbishing my Victorian house in Dover, and with the market downturn, I found myself in negative equity. That’s when I hit my second major turning point: I needed extra income, fast — so I launched a mobile disco business. It started out of necessity, but quickly became a creative outlet. I even dabbled in mobile bars, though that venture didn’t last long.

Around the same time, I began building a website for the disco business, starting with a booking system in PHP 5. I remembered a friend who once built a SaaS platform, and thought, “Why not me?” It was a completely different beast from my C/C++ day job — but I had just enough technical grounding to give it a go.

Bit by bit, and admittedly very badly at first, I built a successful SaaS website, learning about SEO, Google marketing, and the quirks of web development. It was a crash course in entrepreneurship and digital strategy. Eventually, I sold the site, and by 2011, I made the leap: I decided to professionally move into web development.

That same year, I landed a job in Galway, Ireland — a place I’d long admired for its affordable housing and plentiful tech jobs. It felt like a fresh start, both professionally and personally.

🌍 2012–2013 — Ireland & Return: A False Start and a Quiet Rebuild

In 2012, I moved to Ireland, chasing a fresh start and new opportunities in web development. I continued working on various SaaS websites, steadily improving my technical skills and deepening my understanding of the web. But the job I’d taken didn’t go well. I lacked the right tech stack experience, struggled with interpersonal dynamics, and — if I’m honest — didn’t feel any real desire for the role. It was a mismatch, and I knew it.

By 2013, I’d returned to the UK with my ex-wife, landing temporarily in her mum’s spare room. It wasn’t glamorous, but it gave me space to regroup. I threw myself into my web projects, working hard to build something sustainable and meaningful. It was a quiet, determined chapter — no big wins, no spotlight — just the daily grind of rebuilding, learning, and preparing for the next leap.

💻 2013–2015 — Bristol to Somerset: PHP, Parking Battles & Personal Goals

After returning from Ireland, I landed my first real PHP developer job in Bristol, working for a travel agency. It was a refreshing change — a chance to sharpen my skills and finally feel aligned with the work. But the commute from Somerset was long, and when the Clifton parking permit system changed, it became both difficult and expensive to get to work. Bristol had its perks — a good gym, great shops, and a vibrant working environment — but the logistics wore me down.

I started looking for something more local and soon landed a role at Toolstation, which turned out to be a great move. Around this time, I also had a brief disco setup — a black Vivaro van, moving heads, and Wharfedale speakers — keeping the weekend energy alive while I worked hard on my websites, trying to turn them into a profitable venture.

In 2014, I secured my second professional PHP developer job at Toolstation. It went really well — I learned new development practices, took on new areas of responsibility, and even sat the ZCE PHP certification exam (a tough one, in a proper exam room!). My own websites were gaining traction, and I felt like things were finally clicking.

My overall goal during this time was clear: buy another house and start a family. The fear of financial instability kept me focused and driven. In 2015, I achieved one of those goals — I bought my current home in Somerset. It was a milestone that marked the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

🔁 2016–2017 — Reinvention: Divorce, Laravel & Third Time Lucky

By 2016, life had shifted again. I packed up the disco gear, thinking I had too much on with my websites — though even those were winding down. After years of effort, I felt the market had changed. Google’s free tools had taken over the space I once thrived in, and it no longer felt worth the investment.

That same year, I split with my ex-wife. We’d grown in different directions since meeting back at uni, and it was time to move on. It didn’t take long before I met my new partner — funny how life has its own timing.

Money was tight again. I started selling things on eBay, trying to stay afloat while navigating the emotional and financial aftermath of divorce. I’d taken out a re-mortgage, and by 2017, I was determined to pay it back — so I returned to DJing for the third time. This time, it felt more focused, more purposeful. Third time lucky.

Meanwhile, at Toolstation, things were thriving. I had a great group of friends at work, and together we produced some fantastic results — relaunching the website, building internal tools, and improving services across the board. With the growing number of stores and increasing system demands, we made performance tweaks and finally introduced Laravel, moving away from the custom frameworks we’d used before.

During this period, I saw several colleagues come and go, heading off on their own adventures — startups, relocations, career pivots. It made me wonder what other opportunities might lie ahead, and whether I was ready to explore something new myself.

Around this time, I found myself revisiting my youth, rekindling an interest in stage hypnosis techniques. I thought it might tie in nicely with the weekend DJing — a blend of entertainment, psychology, and showmanship that had always fascinated me.

👶 2018–2019 — Fatherhood, Focus & the Fire to Build Again

In 2018, my daughter Pipsy was born — a moment that changed everything. It was my third major turning point. I went on paternity leave, started redecorating the house, and in the process, stumbled across Anthony Robbins. His work was a game changer — it lit a fire under me and reshaped how I thought about motivation, mindset, and momentum.

I quickly converted the garage into a utility room and office, carving out space for both family life and creative work. I spent time with my (now) wife, prepping for BBQs with friends, soaking up the joy of new beginnings. My websites had mostly tailed off, but the disco business was thriving — I’d stuck with it, refined my setup, and committed to mastering the craft.

I was deep into self-improvement, reading books like Law of Success, The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, The Magic of Thinking Big, The Science of Getting Rich, and absorbing insights from Bob Proctor and David Thompson. It was a time of reflection and recalibration — not just personally, but professionally.

Technically, I was sharpening my skillset — learning Vue, diving deeper into Laravel, and exploring modern development practices. By March 2019, I’d built a Laravel-based DJ booking system — a custom solution that tied together my weekend work with my coding passion. It felt like everything was starting to align again.

🦠 2019 -Lockdown, Redundancy & Rediscovery in Legacy Code

When lockdown hit in 2020, everything changed. I was made redundant, and suddenly found myself without gigs, without professional work, and facing a rough personal stretch. The world had slowed down, but the pressure hadn’t. It was a tough time — financially, emotionally, creatively.

Soon after, I found work at Cardstream, a local payment gateway company, stepping in as a senior developer. It felt like a trip down memory lane — back to jQuery, custom PHP frameworks, and strict code styling rules. Most of the codebase was legacy, so I couldn’t apply many of the modern skills I’d spent years developing. But I made the most of it.

One highlight was building a serverless PHP service using Bref on AWS — a deeper dive into cloud architecture that expanded my understanding of serverless design and AWS tooling. I was already using Docker by this point, so it felt like a natural extension of my evolving toolkit.

It wasn’t the year I’d planned, but it was a year that tested my adaptability — and reminded me that even in legacy systems, there’s room to innovate.

🔄 2022–Present — Loqbox: REST, Refactors & Real-World Resilience

2022 brought a fresh start when I joined Loqbox as a Senior Software Engineer — a role that finally aligned with the modern skills I’d been honing. I dove into a world of REST-based services, and quickly found my rhythm, mastering the architecture and patterns that powered the platform.

For the first two years, I worked closely with the finance team, focused almost entirely on the finance system. It was a deep dive into one domain, with limited exposure to the wider product — but it sharpened my precision and gave me a solid foundation in the company’s core infrastructure.

As the company evolved, so did the team structure. I was reshuffled into an internal services team, where we maintained and improved a range of internal tools and applications. While much of the work was maintenance-focused, I genuinely enjoyed it — especially the debugging, performance tuning, and fault finding that came with keeping complex systems running smoothly.

At one point, I was part of a 10-person team, most of whom were based in India. The different working patterns made things a little chaotic at times, but it was also a chance to grow — I learned a lot about collaboration across time zones, and picked up new skills in AWS, GitHub webhooks, and Bitbucket workflows.

While my focus remained on backend APIs, I also started picking up React on the frontend. My earlier experience with JavaScript — from Toolstation and my own websites — came back into play, and I found myself bridging both sides of the stack when needed.

One of the more interesting projects involved integrating third-party services using event-driven architecture to keep systems in sync — a satisfying blend of logic, timing, and real-world impact.

Last updated October 2025.

Some food for thought:

Sometimes stumbling blindly can be better than being led in the wrong direction

One of the best ways to solve tricky problems is to stay open to learning from others. You don’t have to reinvent the wheel — sometimes the smartest move is building on what others have already figured out.

“Just keep plodding on.” — Mum’s advice
It’s not flashy, but it’s powerful. When things get tough, this simple mantra reminds me that progress doesn’t have to be fast — it just has to continue. One step at a time, even when the path isn’t clear.