Back in the late 1980s, I worked in a duty-free fashion buying office as a merchandiser. It was a busy, buzzing environment where the buying team and we merchandisers worked closely together to make sure each shop had the right combination of styles, colours, and sizes. My area of responsibility was Ladies’ and Gents’ accessories — mainly ties and scarves — those small but essential details that finish a look.

Our department came under the wider Fashion umbrella, led by a formidable woman named Libby Pluck. At the time, I found her quite intimidating. She had that rare ability to command a room without raising her voice — a mix of authority, experience, and quiet confidence. Sadly, Libby is no longer with us, but you can still find her in the BBC archives, a reminder of her remarkable presence and influence.

I enjoyed my role, but it came with a heavy workload. I often stayed late, once the office had quietened down, to focus on the tasks that needed real concentration. Those after-hours sessions became part of my routine — a few extra hours to get things just right. Libby, although an early riser, was also one of the last directors to leave, so we often found ourselves in the building at opposite ends of the day.

One morning, I arrived at my desk to find a small piece of paper torn from Libby’s desk diary. On it, in her neat handwriting, were the words:

“Not everything worth doing is worth doing well.”

At first, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. It sounded almost wrong — weren’t we always told to do everything to the best of our ability? But over the years, those words have stayed with me, and I’ve come to appreciate their wisdom. Every so often, when I find myself overthinking a task or chasing perfection unnecessarily, I stop and ask: Is this job really worth doing well — or just worth doing?

That question came to mind again today while I was pruning the laurel hedge outside the clinic. My neighbour kindly offered to lend me their petrol hedge cutter. I have one myself, but I’d chosen to use hand clippers instead. Why? Because this hedge is still young, its branches aren’t yet dense, and I know from experience that the hedge cutter tends to tear at delicate growth. One wrong move and you’re left with a gap that takes months to fill. Using clippers takes longer, but it gives me more control — and in this case, doing the job properly will set the hedge up for healthier growth later on.

If I didn’t have that knowledge, I might easily have gone for the quicker option. That’s the thing about our choices — they’re always influenced by what we know, what we’ve learned, and what we value. Sometimes, taking the slower route isn’t about being fussy; it’s about being thoughtful.

It’s the same with health and wellbeing. We all know we should eat well, stay active, and make time for ourselves. Yet how often do we actually put that knowledge into practice with care and consistency? Quick fixes are tempting, but real wellbeing — like a well-tended hedge — grows over time through small, steady, deliberate actions.

Libby’s message still rings true today. Not everything worth doing needs to be done perfectly. But when it comes to the things that really matter — our health, our relationships, our personal growth — those are the ones worth taking our time over.

A Final Thought

In the clinic, we often see people striving for perfection — in their health, their habits, or their appearance. But sometimes, the real progress comes when we ease off that pressure and focus instead on consistency and care. Just as I chose to prune that hedge slowly and mindfully, it’s often the gentler, more intentional approach that leads to lasting results. After all, perfection isn’t the goal — progress is.