I grew up on top
of a hotel.
Now I'm rebuilding
London's queer soul.
My father Clive ran the St Giles Hotel, Tottenham Court Road. Welsh. My mother Vanessa arrived from Ireland with 40 pence and got a job at The Ritz. Both of them built something from nothing, in a city that wasn't built for them. I have been doing the same thing — AuDHD, gay, Welsh-Irish, Camden-raised — ever since.
Two strands.
One system.
The double helix drifting through this canvas is not a metaphor borrowed from biology. It is how my brain has always worked. Two strands running in parallel, binding at every interchange.
The purple strand is Autism: pattern recognition, deep expertise, systems architecture, documentation obsession, low tolerance for friction. The pink strand is ADHD: hyperfocus, urgency, novelty drive, parallel processing, compulsive building.
Where they meet — the gold points you can see flickering through the canvas — is where the partnerships are built. The original thinking. The 48-hour sprint that should have taken six weeks. The 27-subdomain ecosystem operated by one human and an AI workforce.
Use the toggle at the top right to isolate each strand. See what Autism does alone. See what ADHD does alone. Then turn them both back on. Watch the gold ignite.
Not coping mechanisms.
Optimised workflows.
Each trait is doing a specific job. These are not soft skills. They are production-grade capabilities — running live, right now, across two businesses in Camden.
My husband thought I was going crazy. He said it with love. He is not wrong that I am at the edge of something. But the edge is exactly where I need to be.
I cried in public for the first time. Not in private. Not alone. In a room full of people. Because I cared too much about something to hold it in. That is not a breakdown. That is what happens when you finally let yourself feel something all the way through.
Camden Council demolished my childhood in a single day. The buildings where Sebastian and Max and I used to play. The summer nights at Tasha's house — sneaking through the side door because she had the Barbie dolls and it felt like the most free place in the world. St Joseph's RC Primary in Covent Garden. The years at The Oratory. All of it.
They didn't just take buildings. They took my christening boxes. My Star Wars collection. Everything stored in the shed next door — not across the city, next door — and then deleted. Erased. One call, one decision, one morning I wasn't there for.
Dust is skin.
Skin is people.
I am covered in it — day and night.
That is not a metaphor. It is physics. Every surface I walk through is made of everyone who ever walked through it before. Working in ZODIAC — breathing it back to life — I am covered in the dust of those buildings, those streets, those summers. From the places my mates used to play to the lovely summer nights at Tasha's. It is all still there.
I feel the world differently. I always have. I feel it all at once, sometimes — all of it, simultaneously, with no buffer. People call that erratic. I am choosing to call it accurate. The world is erratic. I am just not pretending otherwise.
Does it make me crazy? No. Does it make me erratic? Yes. And that is okay. Because at the edge of your comfort zone is the magic. In the void is where the original thinking lives. And we don't need big caves or grand moments to connect with what is real.
Numbers that survive
a follow-up question.
Every figure below is qualified. The boring true version is more impressive than the punchy bigger-numbers version, because the boring version holds under scrutiny.
Every tension
produces a capability.
The current model is a relic.
I have built an alternative.
It is not a "service." It is a structural inevitability — a biological and technical architecture designed to see what others miss and build what others cannot. These are its laws.
The Law of Structure
We do not build on sand. We build on rigorous, documented, immutable frameworks. If it is not repeatable, it is not real. The autistic brain does not prototype carelessly — it architects. Every system I hand over is built to run without me in the room.
The Law of Velocity
We do not wait for permission. We hyperfocus. We compress months into days. We hunt for the unseen angle that renders the conventional approach obsolete. When hyperfocus arrives, the output is extraordinary — and the documentation from that sprint runs without me afterward.
The Forge
Most people see the tension between Autism and ADHD as a defect. I see it as the forge — the place where two opposing forces create something neither could produce alone. A Fortress that is stable. A Thunderbolt that is fast. A system that is simultaneously rigorously architected and creative enough to outperform category norms. The gold points in the helix above are where the forge fires. That is where the partnerships are built.
Sometimes the caring breaks the body. I don't hide the hospital wristband. I wear it as proof that I am all in. If you aren't feeling the world, you are not building for it.
We just have to all
stand still
for a second.
And breathe.
The magic is not in the grand cave or the eureka moment. It is at the edge of your comfort zone — right at the line where you do not know if you can hold it. Original thinking happens in the void. Connection — real connection, with each other, with the earth — does not require a ceremony.
This is the operating system. AuDHD. LGBTQ+. Welsh-Irish. Camden. The hotel roof. The dust. The hospital wristband. 27 subdomains. A Trans-founded venue opening its doors tomorrow.
All of it. At the same time.
My father built hotels.
My mother built a life from 40 pence.
I build partnerships.
Not a discovery call. A genuine conversation about your opportunity — and whether my operating system, my team, and our values are the right fit for yours.
Start the conversation →