This week feels a bit like having butterflies in my tummy. On Thursday, Andy and I will be taking Tombert, one of our much-loved Bert sculptures, to his new home at Tom Harrison House in Liverpool.
If you’ve been following us for a while, you’ll know that every Bert Andy makes feels like part of our family. They’re not mass-produced or churned out of a factory. They’re built slowly, carefully, from aviation scrap and vintage odds and ends that most people would never look twice at. When Andy’s finished, though, they’ve got a personality, a story, and a presence all of their own.
So letting one go is never easy. Honestly, it feels a bit like sending your child off to school for the first time, you’re proud, a little nervous, and secretly hoping they’ll be loved as much as you love them.
Tombert isn’t just heading anywhere. He’s going to Tom Harrison House, the UK’s only residential recovery centre created especially for veterans, reservists, serving personnel, and emergency services staff.
For us, that makes this donation especially meaningful. Andy is a veteran himself. He served 27 years in Army aviation, then spent another 16 in civil aviation. Making these sculptures started as a way for him to manage his wellbeing, to turn pain and pressure into creativity.
So giving Tombert to Tom Harrison House feels like closing a circle. It’s a gift from one veteran to an organisation that stands beside many others.
There’s something in the way Andy builds a sculpture that reminds me of recovery.
When he starts, the pieces don’t look like much. A few scraps of metal. An old part no one wanted. A broken object that looks beyond repair. But Andy doesn’t see them that way. He sees potential.
With imagination, patience, and care, those bits and pieces are shaped into something new. Something with personality. Something that makes people stop and smile.
Isn’t that exactly what Tom Harrison House does every day? They look at people who feel stuck, weighed down, or unsure how to start again, and they help them see new possibilities. They remind people that they’re not broken, they’re human, and with the right support, they can rebuild.
That’s why Tombert belongs there.
We’re not in a position to donate thousands of pounds to charities. Maybe one day we will be. But what we can give is something unique. Something personal. Something that carries a story with it.
That’s why, when we’re asked how we can help, our answer is: “We can give a Bert.”
And honestly? Sometimes giving the thing only you can give is the most valuable gift of all.
Our sculptures are, first and foremost, art pieces for adults. They’re designed to make people pause, think, and talk. We’ve seen it again and again: someone notices a tiny detail in a Bert, maybe a tiny vintage spy camera for a head, or a clock part hidden in the chest, and suddenly a whole conversation begins.
But these same sculptures are also the heartbeat of Weebert’s World, our children’s brand.
When I write stories about Weebert and his friends, I’m drawing on the sculptures Andy makes. And when we bring those stories to life in stop-motion animation, children get to see what’s possible when you mix imagination with a few ordinary scraps.
That’s the part I love most: how it all crosses generations. For adults, the Berts are art with meaning. For children, they’re characters full of adventure. Together, they connect families, opening the door for play, stories, and imagination to flow between grandparents, parents, and children.
So yes, I’m nervous. Yes, Andy’s a little protective (as he always is when one of the Berts leaves home). And yes, it feels like sending one of our babies out into the world.
But more than anything, I feel proud. Because Tombert is going somewhere he’ll be valued, appreciated, and maybe even spark the kind of conversations that change a day, or even a life.
From scrap can come stories. From stories can come imagination. And from imagination can come hope.
Here’s to Tombert’s next adventure with Tom Harrison House. 💛
with love
Lotty x
