STEM Inspiration, Scrap Robots, and the Children’s Stories Behind Weebert’s World
We didn’t plan to start a business.
We didn’t plan to build a children’s brand.
We certainly didn’t plan to be on national television in our sixties talking about a robot made from a tiny vintage spy camera.
In fact, if you’d told me even two years ago that Andy and I would be writing stories, building sculptures, running workshops, and talking to someone like Wilfred Emmanuel-Jones, The Black Farmer, about having our work in a London store… I’d have thought you were off your rocker.
But here we are.
And the thing is…
Weebert wasn’t meant to happen.
Not in the traditional sense. Not as part of a plan.
He happened the way the best things do, by accident, in a moment of quiet curiosity, when no one was looking.
Andy didn’t sit down and say, “I’m going to build a robot who will one day be the star of a children’s TV series.”
He was just trying to stay upright.
He was in a tough place, mentally, emotionally.
So he started tinkering.
A bit of copper wire here. An old watch part there.
One piece led to another. No agenda. Just building. Just making.
And then one day he came into the kitchen, holding this odd little robot.
It had opera glass eyes, wire hair, and a tiny vintage spy camera for a head.
It looked like it had something to say.
I said, “He looks like a Weebert.”
And something clicked.
That’s when the stories began. Not because I planned to write a book, but because I started wondering what Weebert might get up to if he were real.
What would he say? What would he feel? What if he was bored? What if he built something out of his boredom, like Andy had?
The story wrote itself.
The dream… well, it snuck up on us.
When people say things like “It’s never too late,” it can sound a bit twee.
Like a well-meaning line on a fridge magnet.
But here’s what I’ve learned:
Starting late often means starting deeper.
You bring all the years. All the lived experience. All the grief, joy, humour, and heartbreak.
When I sit down to write a story for Weebert’s World, I’m not just making up a character. I’m writing with my grandchildren in mind.
I’m drawing on decades of parenting, of working in the public sector, of learning how children think and feel and wonder.
And Andy? Every sculpture he builds holds echoes of 27 years in the Army, 16 years in civil aviation, and all the times he’s quietly kept going when things were tough.
We’re not wide-eyed twenty-somethings building a brand with a business plan and a launch party.
We’re two people in our sixties, bootstrapping something from a kitchen table with copper wire and stubborn belief.
And maybe that’s exactly what makes it work.
Weebert wasn’t part of the plan.
But the moment he arrived, he felt right.
Like he’d always been there, waiting to be noticed.
He represents something we’d forgotten how to say:
That creativity matters.
That play is powerful.
That we don’t have to be shiny or perfect or polished to be loved.
We just have to be real.
So no, Weebert wasn’t meant to happen.
But maybe he was meant for exactly this moment.
A reminder that the best things often start when you’re not trying to impress anyone, just following a spark that won’t go out.
If you’ve got one of those sparks, follow it.
Even if it doesn’t make sense yet.
Even if it’s made of scrap.
You never know what might come to life.
with love
Lotty x
