The Standard

Every operation of any size has written standards, and most of them are correct, current and signed. Stand at three identical stations and watch three people do the same job.

All three make good parts. One works left to right, one works front to back, one has moved the fixture eight centimetres closer because of his shoulder. The sheet is posted at each station, laminated, the right revision, initialled by somebody who checked. Nobody is deviating in any way they would recognise as deviating, and if you asked them they would each say they were following it.

A standard is a document until it becomes a habit, and habits are not transferred by documents. They are transferred by the person standing next to you on your first week, who shows you the way they were shown, including the two adjustments they made for reasons that were true four years ago. The sheet describes the operation. The neighbour teaches it, and the neighbour is the one who is there.

The bill arrives when something changes. Volume doubles, or the person who taught everybody retires, and three versions of the job become three different yields on the same drawing. The investigation goes looking for a process problem and finds three people all doing what they were taught.

So a written standard is worth exactly one question, and it is not whether it is current: who taught the last person hired, and did they teach the sheet or themselves? The document is the intention. The neighbour is the process.

Where this shows up: Production turnaround — recovering delivery, quality and cost.