You find me this morning in a nostalgic mood, one prompted by news from the Whitehouse that the simple mansion in which I was raised is to be made a US National Monument.
The announcement honours my role as the progenitor of the US civil wrights movement which transformed the conduct of skilled manual workers in the 1950s. Few now can remember first-hand the days in which my movement was formed, days in which it was not possible to walk from one end of a craft-village to the other without the cussing of curmudgeonly wrights bringing a wine-hued blush to one's cheek.
Upon its launch the movement was greeted by characteristically impolite catcalls from the artisan community, but I was undaunted. March after march, impassioned speech after impassioned speech, I laboured for a cause I knew to be wright, sorry, right.
Hitting new oratorical heights with my ‘I have a dream’ address in Bettysburg- an address that had old and young alike in tears at my vision of a manufactory world free of incivilities- I stood foursquare against the combined enmities of a nation’s artificers, braving all to ensure that one day we would be…
(… is wheeled away by nurses.)