Months ago, when I was just some threads of cotton in the huge mechanised loom of a textile factory in China, I didn’t know what my life would hold. I could have been a baseball cap, or a premium t-shirt with a brand on it. Then the machine warped in some white with my red weft, and a checked pattern began to take shape in and around me.
At this time, being a length of fabric, I was – as you might imagine – not totally across what this would portend. Naively, I wondered if I might become a table-cloth, carefully unfolded onto bird-shit spattered tables in a park to make a family feel a bit fancy about their picnic. The folly of youth! But then big industrial knives hacked me into smaller and smaller parts: a round cut here, a straight line there. Needles darted up and down, stitching constituent parts together into the shape you know me as now.
Before I knew it, I had become a bucket hat for a French sausage company.
Did we do a good job with this story?
