A Road Not Taken

As a little lad I thought I would grow up to be a hatter and work in a factory much like the one pictured above. I know this because I remember writing an essay when I was around seven or eight saying so. The essay was one sentence long and was on the topic What I want to be when I grow up (or words to that effect.) I didn't want to be a hatter; in fact I found the idea of going into a big noisy factory very frightening, but it seemed to me inevitable I would end up in the job because that's what Dad did. Most of the sentence I wrote comprised my explanation of this brute fact.

The factory Dad worked in was not in Stockport (where the Hat Museum is located) but in Denton, where we lived. Wilson's on Wilton Street was a well-known brand until it went out of business in the early 60s, leaving Dad redundant. I'd intended for us to visit the museum in December, but we were too busy and somehow my heart wasn't in it. I took the picture from a distance, the day we went to the panto at the Plaza Theatre. 

So that's a life I never had. Fighting in a war, followed by relentless, poorly-paid factory work, until the work dried up. Lucky me. Unlucky Dad.