Imagination at Any Age: Why the Heart of Weebert’s World Is a Kitchen Table
When people ask, “Where is Weebert’s World set?” we usually say:
The kitchen, the garden, and the workshop.
But if they ask where our version of Weebert’s World began, the answer is even simpler:
At the kitchen table.
No fancy studio.
No team of creatives.
Just a tiny robot made from a vintage spy camera, some opera glass lenses, a tangle of copper wire, and two people who’d almost forgotten how powerful imagination could be.
Some begin in the middle of your life.
When you think you’re supposed to be slowing down.
When people say you should be “taking it easy.”
And instead, you find yourself drawing robots on napkins and staying up until midnight tweaking dialogue about flying sheep.
Our kitchen is where I write.
It’s where I read stories aloud before they’re finished.
It’s where Andy brings in the latest Bert, covered in sawdust and full of character, to show me before I’ve even put the kettle on.
It’s not polished. It’s not quiet.
But it’s where the real magic lives.
Because the truth is , you don’t need a studio to create something special.
You need space, belief, and a bit of chaos you’re willing to welcome in.
Weebert may look like a children’s character, and he is.
But something happens when adults meet him, too.
They lean in.
They smile in that surprised, slightly emotional way.
Sometimes they say, “He reminds me of something I used to do…”
Or, “I had a drawer just like that full of broken watch parts.”
It’s not just nostalgia. It’s recognition.
That spark of Oh, I remember how this feels.
Weebert’s World was never meant to be just for children.
It’s for anyone who’s ever been told they’re “too much” or “too old” or “too late.”
It’s for anyone who’s lost their sense of wonder, and wants it back.
We’re not afraid to say that Weebert’s World is homemade.
The stories are scribbled in notebooks.
The characters are built from bits of scrap found in car boots, aviation boxes, and forgotten drawers.
There are tools next to the toaster. A magnifying lamp where the fruit bowl should be.
More copper wire in the cutlery drawer than there is cutlery.
It’s chaotic.
It’s joyful.
And it’s working.
Because sometimes the most powerful place to create isn’t behind closed doors, it’s right in the middle of life, where everything collides: family, dreams, tea breaks, and glue guns.
When children meet Weebert, they see someone who thinks like them.
When adults meet Weebert, they remember someone they used to be.
That’s the heart of this brand: it crosses generations.
We’ve had teachers, grandparents, engineers, and artists reach out, all finding something of themselves in these characters.
We’ve had a child say, “I want to make my own robot,”
And a grandfather say, “That reminds me of a radio I built in the ‘60s.”
It’s not just a story. It’s a mirror.
And what people see in it is often a version of themselves they’ve missed.
We don’t need to go searching for magic.
It’s here, in the kitchen.
In the making.
In the in-between moments where someone says, “I wonder if…” and someone else says, “Let’s try.”
So if you’re waiting for permission to start something, a story, a sculpture, a silly idea that lights you up, this is it.
Because the real magic?
It happens right where you are.
And sometimes, that’s a kitchen table covered in sawdust, tea cups, and a robot named Weebert, quietly inviting you to imagine something better.
with love
Lotty x
