My love of the (Manchester) Guardian dates from my older brother, John, in 1940s Derbyshire. John grew up in the days of the Attlee reforming Labour government and for the rest of his life took the Guardian (moving from Chesterfield to London in the 1950s) religiously.
Since my long-ago brotherly Guardian baptism, I have variously subscribed to the Weekly around the world – in Varanasi, Melbourne, Toronto, Cork, Singapore, Houston, Santa Barbara, Brisbane, Havana and Vancouver. But I now prefer that olden-day process of buying my copy on a Friday over the counter from the friendly newsagent on Granville Island, British Columbia.
Then I sit by the sea, or inside if raining (often), to enjoy my pristine GW with a coffee in the Public Market and an apricot ginger scone. Almost every Friday morning this is my ritual. I know it’s cheaper to subscribe and one can for free view the Guardian online, but for me there is great pleasure in paying over the counter with a little human exchange about the weather or local news of the Canucks or the White Caps.
There is even a pleasing anxiety to contend with in case the newsagent has run out so I am forced to look elsewhere or, better still, buy the previous Sunday’s Observer. I am less religious than was my brother and enjoy being a heretic at times, even with the BC Globe & Mail or the Vancouver Sun.
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