What could possibly go wrong..?

I assess risk for a living. It’s what I do, every day.

And if I’m honest, it doesn’t switch off. It seeps into how I see the world.

Spend long enough in risk, and it becomes part of your wiring. The professional lens doesn’t stay in the office; it follows you onto trains, into shops, and into everyday life. I’d argue most seasoned risk professionals are the same.

Over time, you start to build an internal model of the world – constantly scanning, quietly assessing, and making micro-decisions without even realising it. What sits right, what doesn’t, what feels routine and what feels just slightly off. It’s not dramatic or intrusive; it’s just there, running in the background like a well-trained algorithm.

Now, let’s be clear. This doesn’t mean I’ve turned Pardoe Towers into a fortified compound. There are no guards on rotation, no AI-powered surveillance system tracking the milkman. But the mindset? That’s always there.

It shows up in small ways. Choosing where to sit on public transport. Clocking behaviour that doesn’t quite sit right. Keeping a quiet, constant awareness of who’s around you and what’s unfolding. It’s not paranoia but rather pattern recognition built over years.

And if we’re honest, sometimes that pattern recognition can tip slightly toward over-caution. When you spend a career dealing with worst-case scenarios, it’s easy to see them everywhere – even when they’re not there. The challenge, I’ve found, is knowing when to trust that instinct and when to challenge it.
But here’s the confession. I stopped and picked up two hitchhikers.

Not only that, I did it on a remote stretch of moorland where the usual foot traffic consists of sheep, curlews, and the occasional suicidal rabbit. Hardly your typical lift-sharing hotspot. In fact, I would challenge any murder mystery to find a more stereotypical “man missing on moor” location.

In my defence, this wasn’t a calculated act of generosity. One of them launched himself into the road in front of my truck with such commitment that stopping became less of a choice and more of a necessity. In that split second, there was a very real calculation – risk of stopping versus risk of not stopping. Braking felt like the safer risk decision than explaining a bonnet-shaped dent in a tourist.

I came to a halt, cautiously lowered the window, and was greeted by a thick German accent asking if I could take them “down the road” as they were, in his words, “buggered.”

And to be fair, they were.

My unexpected male companions were cold, wet, and clearly past the point of enjoying whatever scenic ambition had brought them there in the first place. They also didn’t possess the customary whippet-like build of most hikers, but who am I to judge!?!

So, with a level of hesitation that would make any risk assessment proud, I unlocked the doors. My two new companions climbed in.

Their English was excellent, far better than my non-existent German (our education system coupled with our sole language arrogance has a lot to answer for…) and within minutes we’d established they were staying at one of my favourite local hotels. A former hunting lodge. Proper place. Does an excellent Negroni and was home to my big 60th birthday.

The journey itself was short, but something interesting happened.

I slipped into tour guide mode.

In ten minutes, they were treated to a rapid-fire overview of the local landscape… Viking and Roman invasions, abandoned lead mines (hence the invasions), strange honeycombed rock formations once rumoured to be medieval “fridge freezers,” and the nearby hotel famed for Jeremy Clarkson’s less-than-diplomatic encounter with a producer.

In return, I was quizzed on the great British stereotypes. Do we really eat a full English every morning? How often do we drink pints of beer? You’d think we had a reputation!

But here’s the thing.

For all the risk awareness, internal checks and quiet calculations, this was just a human moment. A brief, unexpected connection between three people who would otherwise never have crossed paths.

It also served as a quiet reminder that not every situation fits neatly into a risk matrix. Not every decision needs to be optimised, controlled, or mitigated to within an inch of its life. Sometimes, measured judgement and a bit of humanity sit just as comfortably alongside good risk management.

By the time we pulled into the gravel driveway of their hotel, we’d all gained something from it. They had a lift, warmth, and a story. I had the reminder that instinct and kindness don’t have to be mutually exclusive.

They thanked me profusely, and I thanked them – genuinely.

And as I drove off? I locked the doors. Because let’s not get carried away…