I’ve been reading the Guardian Weekly for half a century. A British expat neighbour in suburban Box Hill (Victoria) used to leave his paper in our mailbox every week as he strode past to catch the bus. His bequeathing his Guardians and his singing in the Methodist church choir alongside my father were our only points of contact with him.
When Dad had finished with Mr K’s paper, I became its third reader. I have always read from back to front, probably because in those long ago days of production delays the news items were just a little dated (and London-centric). I have mostly lived in Australia except for 1981 in Connecticut as a post-doctoral student. My New Jersey‑born housemate eagerly took up the Guardian reading habit. I still miss the old rice paper version; it could easily be folded into a pocket to read on the train to New York.
I’ve never understood a single cryptic crossword clue. On the other hand, I appreciate the wit of the Notes & Queries contributors (I have appeared a couple of times), the erudition of the book reviewers, the readability of the technical and scientific articles, and the air of polite exasperation that has characterised the dispatches of successive US correspondents.
If both sides of the Washington gridlock were to read the Guardian Weekly regularly, I’m sure an air of sweet reasonableness would prevail.
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