What we learnt visiting care homes

Hi, I’m Bertie Aspinall, stepping into the rather big shoes of Romanie Thomas, our former CEO.

Before anything else, I want to thank Romanie for two years of extraordinary dedication to Chatsie. She steered the company from a simple idea, to the moment the first Chatsie phone went on sale - all while raising one, and then two, very young boys. So she was effectively launching two start-ups at the same time! An incredible achievement. We wish her every success in her next venture.

I first worked closely with Romanie when we began visiting care homes as part of our early research for Chatsie. We ran smartphone workshops with residents. The idea was simple: bring along your phone, ask any question you like, and we’d try to help. At the same time, people could try a Chatsie phone and see if it solved some of the frustrations they were experiencing.

Those visits stayed with me.

What struck me most wasn’t a lack of interest in technology, quite the opposite. The desire to stay connected was incredibly strong. People were writing entire contact lists out by hand in notebooks. Others were painstakingly copying down instructions so they wouldn’t forget them later. There was real determination. But there was also fear. Smartphones had become complicated in ways that made them difficult to trust.

We also heard stories that were genuinely moving. People who had once used technology easily but could no longer manage it because of memory loss. Others who found that arthritis or reduced dexterity made tiny touchscreens almost impossible to use.

It was in those rooms that the impact of what we were trying to build really became clear. Those conversations shaped the design philosophy behind Chatsie.

At CanDo, the company that developed Chatsie, we talk a lot about intentional design. In simple terms, that means every feature has to earn its place. Nothing exists just because “that’s how smartphones usually work”. When designing for older users, you have to set aside almost every assumption you might normally make about technology. The reference points are completely different.

For many of us who grew up alongside smartphones, the logic of them feels obvious. We learned the gestures, the icons, the menus almost without noticing. When I was growing up in West London in the early 2000s, smartphones were just beginning to appear. By the time I reached university, they were everywhere. We learned them the way you learn a language when you’re young: by immersion. But that experience isn’t universal.

For someone encountering a smartphone later in life, the assumptions built into the design can feel baffling. Why does a button disappear when you swipe? Why does a message thread move? Where did that menu go?

The problem wasn’t intelligence, or willingness to learn. It was simply that the reference points were different. And once you understand that, the job of designing technology becomes much clearer.

Perhaps that way of thinking comes from my own background. I grew up in a family of TV and film professionals - producers, editors, directors, camera operators, actors. Between us, we could have assembled an entire film crew at a family dinner. It’s a world that depends on clarity, teamwork and a huge amount of coordination to bring a story to life. Not unlike designing a smartphone from scratch.

But I was the outlier. While the rest of the family gravitated towards film sets, I found myself drawn to science and engineering. Partly out of curiosity, and partly, if I’m honest, out of a determination to carve out my own path, rather than simply follow the one that was already laid out (however glamorous it appeared).

That eventually took me to Cambridge to study Aeronautical Engineering, and later into the aviation industry. Over time, though, I found myself increasingly drawn to work that had a more direct human impact. During the pandemic I helped to build a charity called Doctors in Distress, which supports the mental health of NHS staff. Watching doctors speak openly with colleagues about the pressures they were facing made a deep impression on me. It reminded me that the most meaningful work happens where practical solutions meet real human need.

That experience helped shape the kind of projects I wanted to work on next.

When I joined CanDo, the venture studio behind Chatsie, I realised I had found something similar. Yes, we’re building technology. But the real motivation behind it is simple: we care about the people who use it.

That might sound obvious, but it changes how you approach the work. When you care about the outcome, every success feels more meaningful. And every time something doesn’t quite work, you feel a responsibility to fix it.

That spirit runs through the whole Chatsie team.

Looking ahead, my hope is that Chatsie continues to grow in a way that makes modern technology feel less intimidating and more inclusive. In time, I would love it to become the natural first step families take when someone they care about starts to struggle with mainstream smartphones, whether because of dexterity issues, memory changes, or simply because the technology has moved on faster than they expected.

Because the desire to stay connected doesn’t fade with age.

In fact, one thing we noticed during those early care home visits still makes me smile... When we asked residents which apps they wanted most, we assumed the answers might be practical ones like the weather or the news.

Instead, the most requested were Facebook and TikTok.

Connection, it turns out, is not a generational trait. It’s a human one.

Best,

Bertie.