Why I Built Inglenook

There’s a particular kind of helplessness that comes from watching someone you love struggle with something that should be simple.

For me, it was phone calls with my mum. She has multiple sclerosis, and the calls we’d have on Skype would often drift — mid-conversation — into me walking her through something on her phone. An app she couldn’t find. A setting that had moved. A tap she’d tried three times but couldn’t land. Every time I visited home, there’d be a queue of small things to sort out.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong. The phone was.

It wasn’t her — it was the phone

I’m a professional Android software developer. I’ve worked on Android apps used by tens of millions of people. So when I looked at my mum’s phone — a Pixel on the standard Android launcher, with the display size cranked up as far as I could push it — I could see exactly what was wrong.

MS affects her motor control. Moving her arm and fingers precisely enough to tap small targets is genuinely difficult. But the standard Android home screen isn’t just small — it’s also unpredictable. Icons rearrange themselves when new apps are installed. Apps get buried in folders. Swiping up to get to the app drawer is a gesture that exists nowhere in the physical world. You have to learn it. And once you’ve learned it, you have to remember it.

I looked at the existing “senior” home screen apps and found them either too clinical — the kind of thing that felt like a medical device, not a phone — or clearly built by people who don’t do this work professionally. Half-finished layouts, poor tap targets, accessibility as an afterthought.

I decided to build something properly.

One month, evenings and weekends

I spent a month working on Inglenook in the evenings and at weekends. The design decisions were guided almost entirely by one question: what does my mum actually need to do on her phone?

The answer was simple: call and message the family. Open a handful of apps. Not get confused.

So Inglenook has large, tappable app icons laid out in a consistent alphabetical grid — they never move. There are no hidden gestures. Favourite contacts sit right on the home screen as cards with photos, so calling someone is two taps from unlock. Everything is big. Everything stays where you put it.

When I installed it on her phone, her reaction told me everything I needed to know. The look on her face, and hearing her say it was great — that it made her happy — was exactly what I’d hoped for.

Who this is for

My mum’s situation isn’t unusual. MS, Parkinson’s, the general changes that come with ageing — all of them can make a standard smartphone feel hostile. The phone hasn’t kept up with the people who need it most.

There are ways to help, at every level: simple accessibility settings built into Android and iOS, purpose-built apps like Inglenook, and hardware solutions for more significant needs. The right answer depends on the person. But the starting point is the same for everyone: connectivity matters. Being able to call a family member, send a message, or video chat with a grandchild isn’t a luxury. It’s how people stay part of each other’s lives.

If you’re reading this because someone you care about is struggling with their phone, I built Inglenook for you too. It takes about ten minutes to set up, and you hand it over knowing it won’t shift under them.

Get Inglenook on Google Play — it’s free.