The Kits That Became Tenants

Emma: My guest today started a company making science kits for schools out of a spare bedroom. Henry, I gather the first year wasn't exactly plain sailing. Henry: That's one way of putting it. The first year was a masterclass in doing everything wrong with great confidence. I ordered components for five thousand kits before I'd sold a single one, on the assumption that the product would speak for itself. It didn't. It sat in boxes in the hall, and my flatmate, who was remarkably patient, began referring to them as the other tenants. Emma: So what turned it around? Henry: Oh, a teacher, really. She wrote to me, quite sternly, to say that the kits were clever but that no teacher had forty-five minutes to read the instructions. I'd been designing for people like myself, who enjoy a manual. I rewrote the whole thing around a single page, and orders began to trickle in, then pour. Emma: And looking back, would you do anything differently? Henry: I'd like to claim I'd have been more cautious with money, but I suspect that's hindsight talking. The truth is, I might not have started at all if I'd known how many mistakes were waiting for me. There's a certain kind of ignorance that's quite useful. Emma: Would you advise others to start in the same way? Henry: Not in so many words. I'd say, find out early who you're really making it for, and ask them rather bluntly. Politeness is expensive when you're running out of money.