I'm standing in a street in Manchester, outside Tesco's.

Yeah, I know.

It's that sort of grey, five o'clock time, drizzly.

I actually wanted to get home, see the kids wasn't going to happen

because I had a really important job to do.

I was trying to track down a woman called Myra.

Myra was a machinist who trained all the other machinists in the factory that once was the beating hot of an area in Middleton. It was where their parents had worked

and it was a little ecosystem of business that fed the community as well as the business's

profits. That day when I was standing there, those factories had all closed down. They'd gone.

In the chase for cheaper manufacturing.

In the chase for us to make more stuff, cheaper and pile up more stuff that would eventually end up in landfill somewhere.

But I was here because I believed that we could bring back production to the UK,

that we could create a heartbeat back again in these factories, and that we could create a

product that had value, longevity, but more importantly, gave jobs

and a sense of purpose to the people who work.

But here's the problem.

I didn't know any machinists who could train these people, all these out-of-work

young people that I wanted to give a job to. They weren't there anymore, but Myra, I'd heard,

was working at Tesco's, stacking shelves, and so I waited until I saw her. And we created a factory.

And we created some knickers.

And we employed people, young people who had never worked,

nor had their parents for a whole generation.

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