One
Something lands, and you’re busy.
A phone call. A text. A WhatsApp. A form off your website. Somebody at ten past four who is about to ring the next firm on the list.
You are: up a ladder
Plumbers & heating engineers
Right — what is it?
It’s a helper that lives in your phone. When you can’t get to the phone, it does — and it talks to people the way you would. It writes your quotes off a voice note in the van. It chases your money until they pay. Then it sends you one text, and you answer it with one word.
That’s the whole product. There is nothing to log into and nothing to learn.
Someone rings at four with no heating. It works out that’s urgent, tells them what you charge, and puts them in tomorrow’s first slot.
01
However complicated the job, it’s always these three things in this order. If you understand this bit you understand the entire product, and you can stop reading.
One
A phone call. A text. A WhatsApp. A form off your website. Somebody at ten past four who is about to ring the next firm on the list.
You are: up a ladder
Two
It picks up. It asks the questions you’d ask, says what you charge, checks your diary and books them in. Everything it says comes off your price list and your diary — never out of thin air.
You are: still up a ladder
Three
Not a notification. Not an inbox. One text, at a sensible hour, with the whole thing in it and a question at the end. Unless it’s an emergency — then your phone rings, because that’s what you told it to do.
You are: down the ladder, having your tea
Everything below this line is just the same three moves, applied to a different Tuesday.
02
This is a real job, start to finish, with nothing left out — every message that got sent, who sent it, and what you had to do. The notes down the side tell you how it knew. Pick the one nearest to what you do.
Up a ladder, halfway through a beech hedge.
Your phone rings twice and then stops. You don’t hear it. You’re up a ladder.
It has your price list. Twenty metres of beech, reduce and shape, plus a green-waste run. It does not make the number up — it reads it off your own sheet.
And now — only now, when there is actually something to decide — it bothers you.
You told it once what counts as an emergency. No heat, with somebody vulnerable in the house, is one.
It has decided this one can’t wait until seven o’clock. So it doesn’t text. It rings you.
Twelve seconds talking at your phone, and back to the car. You did not write anything, ring anybody or open a computer.
This is the bit that gets you paid: he can see it, he understands it, and he’s got a number. On the phone at five o’clock he’d have said “leave it”.
You find out when you next stand up straight.
It knows the round: who cleans what, who holds a key, who has a dog, and who has told you before that they cannot do Thursdays.
Before you’ve put a foot on the floor, it has already done the puzzle.
Four customers, one member of staff, and Marta. All told in your words, not a template. Nobody is left to find out for themselves.
Thirty-eight minutes of you talking while you drive. No notes, no measuring up twice, no sitting down with a laptop.
It has read your last hundred quotes. It knows your layout, your margins, how you word your provisional sums, and that you always price the scaffold separately.
It’s on your phone before you’ve finished your tea.
03
So here’s the arithmetic instead. This is a normal week off one van — not a survey, not a statistic, just the jobs that end up on the kitchen table. Cross out the rows that aren’t you and see where you land.
7h 55mApprenti does this bit
45mYou keep this bit — it’s the deciding
Harder to count, because you never find out. It’s the three people a week who rang, got voicemail, and rang somebody else — and the two quotes that were going to get written on Sunday.
We’re not going to invent a number for that. You know roughly what a job is worth to you. Do that sum yourself. It comes out a good deal bigger than fifty-nine quid, and that’s before the eight hours.
The call at ten past four
The quote for Sunday
The invoice from March
The service that was due in June
The certificate that quietly expired
The ten o’clock cancellation
04
They’ve told you it’s coming for your job, or that it’s going to change everything, or that you need a strategy. Here is the whole thing, honestly, in the time it takes to drink a brew.
It’s a computer that can read and write like a person can.
That’s it. That is genuinely the whole thing. It isn’t a robot, it isn’t thinking, it doesn’t want anything, and it is not coming for your job — it cannot hold a spade, get up a ladder or tell whether a boiler smells wrong.
What it can do is read a message, work out what somebody is actually asking for, and write back something sensible. It can do that four hundred times a day without getting bored, without getting short with a difficult customer at half five on a Friday, and without ever once forgetting to follow up.
Which is a completely useless skill for most of what you do. And an extremely good one for the two hours of reading and writing you do after your tea.
Genuinely good at
Genuinely rubbish at
So it doesn’t guess. It asks you once, writes it down, and never asks again. That’s the entire trick, and it’s why this works and a chatbot doesn’t.
And the things it flatly cannot do — said out loud, before you pay us
05
Every other tool hands you a blank box and a login and wishes you luck. This works the way a good apprentice does: you show it round once, it watches how you do things, and after a fortnight you stop checking.
Week one
Twenty minutes on the phone with a person. What you do, what you charge, what counts as an emergency, who not to work for again. It reads your old quotes. You correct it twice. That’s the setup — there is nothing to configure.
Week two
It answers the ones you can’t, books the obvious ones straight into your diary, and sends you the rest as a text you can deal with in one word. You’re still reading everything. By Friday you’ve stopped reading most of it.
Week four
You notice you haven’t listened to a voicemail in a fortnight, the quotes go out the same day, and nobody has had to ring you twice. That’s the whole change. It isn’t dramatic. It’s just your evenings back.
06
A general assistant is no use to a garage. This one turns up already knowing what an MOT reminder is, what a C2 is, and what happens to a round when a cleaner rings in sick. Pick your trade: the workflows are already written and the prices already have the right words on them.
Answers the phone from under a car
Triages the emergency you can’t answer
Writes the quote you never get round to
Writes up the certificate and the remedial
Covers the cleaner who calls in sick
Quotes while you’re working the job
Books pupils while you’re teaching
Chases the clients so you don’t
Fills the gap a cancellation leaves
Quotes from photos before the others ring back
Notices the member who stopped coming
Prices a job from a photo, same evening
Answers the 2am lockout in one ring
Books the patient ringing in pain
Writes next week’s rota and sends it
Tell us what you do and what eats your evenings. If we can already do it we’ll show you; if we can’t, you’ll hear back from a person either way.
Tell us your trade07
Not a chatbot. Not a dashboard with forty-one settings. Five jobs that a good person would do for you, if you could find one and afford one. The hours in the margin are the ones off your own week.
Not a menu. Not press one for sales. It picks up, works out whether it’s an emergency, a price question or somebody selling you leads, says what you charge and puts the real ones in the diary. If it’s urgent, it rings you. If they want you, it says so and takes a proper message.
Talk at your phone on the way back to the van — forty minutes of it if you like. It comes back as a priced quote in your format, at your rates, ready for you to read, change and send. The one that was never getting written on Sunday.
A nudge, then a reminder, then an actual phone call — in your words, on a schedule you would never keep up yourself. It answers the excuse rather than repeating the invoice number, and it stops the second they pay.
Certificates, registrations, renewals, insurance, waste licences. It knows what expires when, tells you a month out rather than the morning of, and drafts the thing you have to send — pre-filled from last year’s.
A ten o’clock cancellation goes to the right twelve people, not blasted at four hundred. Customers due a service get asked. The ones who quietly stopped coming get a reason to come back, before the direct debit does.
In their words · what people actually asked for
“It answers every call while I’m under a car, books the MOT, and texts the customer a plain-English explanation of the £400 of extra work so they actually approve it before lunch.”
Owner, three-bay MOT & repair garage
08
You shouldn’t have to care. Here’s the honest version of the things everybody asks in the first five minutes — including the awkward ones.
You read one text and you answer it with a word. Usually two or three texts a day, at a time that suits you. That is the entire job. There’s no app to check, no inbox filling up, no dashboard going red at you. If a day goes by where nothing needed deciding, you don’t hear from it at all.
No. There is no chat box to stare at and nothing to “prompt”. Somebody rings you, spends twenty minutes asking about your business the way they’d ask in the pub — what you do, what you charge, what counts as an emergency — and it goes to work. When it needs a decision it texts you, and you reply the way you’d reply to your mate.
It answers in a normal voice, at a normal speed, and it doesn’t pretend to be a person — it says it’s the assistant for your business, because people can tell anyway and they hate being fooled. If the caller wants you specifically, it says so and takes a proper message. If it’s an emergency, your phone rings.
It’s allowed to answer, book and remind. On day one it is not allowed to send a price you haven’t seen, promise a date you can’t make, or spend a penny of your money. Everything else it drafts and hands to you. As you get comfortable you let it off the lead job by job — most people start with invoice chasing, because nobody enjoys that one.
If you employ somebody to answer the phone, be honest with yourself before you buy this — it does a good chunk of what they do. Most of the people we build this for don’t employ anybody for it: the phone gets answered by whoever is nearest, which is nobody, which is why it goes to voicemail. This isn’t replacing a person. It’s replacing an evening.
No. If you can use WhatsApp you can use this. It lives on your phone, it messages you like a person, and you can go months without opening anything that looks like software.
No — that number is on your van, your invoices and eleven years of Google reviews. It stays yours. Calls you pick up are just calls. Calls you don’t pick up within a few rings go to Apprenti instead of voicemail, and you get the transcript before you’ve wiped your hands.
They stay yours. Your customer list, your recordings, your account — held in the UK, exportable in one click, deletable in two. We don’t sell it, we don’t rent it to your competitors, and we don’t use your customers’ conversations to train anything.
No, and please don’t. It sits on top of what you have — reads the diary, writes bookings back into it, and picks up the jobs your existing software has never done, which is most of the ones on this page. If you don’t use anything at all, that’s fine too; a lot of people don’t.
09
Two pounds a day. Put it next to what you already pay for things that do less.
Apprentice
£59/month
One van, one chair, one pair of hands.
14 days. No card.
Improver
£99/month
Two to ten people, a real diary, a real backlog.
14 days. No card. Cancel by text.
Time-served
£149/month
Multi-van, multi-chair, multi-site.
14 days. No card. Cancel by text.
apprenti.cc
Never rings in sick, never leaves for a bigger firm, and genuinely enjoys chasing invoices. Fourteen days free — if it hasn’t answered a call you’d have missed by day three, don’t pay us.