You don’t always know when the most important chapter of your life is beginning.
I didn’t know when Andy brought a tiny, vintage camera into the kitchen.
Or when he stuck opera glasses on the front of it.
Or when he said, “He needs a name, this little chap.”
And I said, “Weebert.”
I didn’t know then that a little robot, no taller than a can of beans, would turn our whole world inside out. That he’d go from our kitchen table to the Jeremy Vine Show. That we’d soon be taking him to London to meet Wilfred Emmanuel-Jones, The Black Farmer himself, to see if he wants to bring the Berts into his White City store.
It’s not confirmed yet. But the idea that someone like Wilfred even wants to see what we’ve made… it means the world.
We weren’t looking for success. We were just trying to make something good out of something hard.
Andy started making sculptures to help with his mental health. Not to sell. Not to share. Just to stay upright. To stay curious.
He used bits of copper wire, old watch springs, RC engines, broken lamps, and the kind of things most people throw away without a second thought.
That’s what we started with: scrap.
But it turns out, scrap tells stories. It holds memories.
And sometimes, if you squint at it with a bit of imagination, it becomes something wonderful.
We didn’t plan a business. We didn’t have a five-year strategy or a clever marketing funnel.
We just listened to the thing inside us that said, what if this mattered to someone else too?
It’s in a child’s imagination.
That’s what Weebert’s World is really about, not robots, but permission.
Permission to play.
Permission to imagine.
Permission to be a little messy, a little curious, a little bold.
The world is full of things that work perfectly but mean nothing.
We wanted to build something that might be a bit wobbly, but meant everything.
And it turns out, when you lead with heart, people notice.
We’re in our sixties.
We didn’t have investors or a network.
We started with old parts, big dreams, and a table in a kitchen in Shrewsbury.
If we’d waited for the conditions to be right, we’d still be waiting.
But here’s the secret: when something is made with real care, people feel it.
Whether they’re three years old or eighty.
You don’t need flashy graphics when your robot has a soul.
You don’t need a celebrity endorsement when you’ve got a little boy in a classroom who says, “Can Weebert come home with me?”
You just need to make something that matters.
Weebert is growing, from books to stop-motion, from schools to shops.
New stories are coming to life on our YouTube channel.
And the dream we never planned to dream? It’s growing legs.
If you’ve got an old drawer full of screws, a quiet idea that won’t leave you alone, or a wish you’ve been scared to say out loud, maybe this is your sign.
Something beautiful might be hiding in your scrap pile.
And if you want to see what it looks like when it comes to life, come and meet Weebert.
He’ll be waiting.
With copper wire hair, a spy camera face, and a heart bigger than any blueprint.
love
Lotty x
