There’s an old short story called “Whose job is it?” that goes like this:

This is a story about four people named Everybody, Somebody, Anybody, and Nobody.

There was an important job to be done and Everybody was asked to do it.

Everybody was sure Somebody would do it. Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.

Somebody got angry about that, because it was Everybody's job.

Everybody thought Anybody could do it but Nobody realised that Everybody wouldn't do it.

It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.

It used to be up on the wall in my secondary school many years ago. Its message of taking ownership and responsibility and not assuming others will do what you don’t want to do has stuck with me ever since.

It’s rather like the famous advice to be the change you wish to see happen. Litter doesn’t clean itself up. Broken things don’t fix themselves. It might be up to you. (see the Bystander effect)

The story seems to be a condensed version of a longer piece by Charles Osgood called "The Responsibility Poem," though I couldn't find an original source anywhere.

Also see: For want of a nail, the story spine, the Accountability Ladder, RACI

Whose job is it?

An ode to the importance of little things.

This classic poem memorably paints a picture of how small details can matter, and how small changes can make a difference. Taking that extra bit of care, adding that extra bit of polish, helping that person when you had nothing to gain, showing up with generosity — all small actions that through their effect on others can, ultimately, have a large impact.

This same idea also applies to how we choose to spend our money and our time through contagious commerce — from Seth Godin:

While one person choosing not to eat meat will have a small impact on our climate, it will have a much bigger impact on the restaurants, groceries and food suppliers who notice what you’re doing.

They’ll change what they offer, and that will lead to a multiplier effect of other people changing their habits.

Buying an electric car or installing solar before they’re the obvious economic choice has the same impact. Because once marketers and investors discover that there’s a significant group that likes to go first, they’re far more likely to invest the time and energy to improve what’s already there...

...Very few people have the leverage to change the world. But all of us have the chance to change the people around us, and those actions change what gets built, funded and launched.

For want of a nail the shoe was lost.
For want of a shoe the horse was lost.
For want of horse the rider was lost.
For want of a rider the battle was lost.
For want of a battle the kingdom was lost.
And all for want of a nail.

For want of a nail

Refers to a poem about a cart that worked perfectly for years and then collapses without warning. Useful parallels in engineering and design. For example, torch lights would generally benefit from being more like the one-hoss shay. A bike light gets progressively worse as the batteries get weak, and cycling gets increasingly dangerous until you decide you can’t take it any more. Much better to have a light that stayed full power, then warned you before it died.

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,

And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay,

I’ll tell you what happened without delay,

Frightening people out of their wits, —

That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,

There is always somewhere a weakest spot, —

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,

In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still,

Above or below, or within or without, —

A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)

He would build one shay to beat the taown

‘N’ the keounty 'n’ all the kentry raoun’;

It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown:

“Fur,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain

Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;

'N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain,

T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk

That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke, —

He sent for lancewood to make the thills;

The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,

The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,

But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” —

Last of its timber, — they couldn’t sell 'em,

And the wedges flew from between their lips,

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;

Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;

That was the way he “put her through.”

“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”

Children and grandchildren — where were they?

But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay

The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.

“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.

In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,

Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day, —

There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,

There couldn’t be, — for the Deacon’s art

That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.

For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,

And the floor was just as strong as the sills,

Poem sketches