Long ago, working near Hampstead Heath in London, I would climb up great trees on the Heath at lunchtimes, and settle down on a comfortable branch to read my Manchester Guardian. As a wide-ranging Aussie world traveller in the 70s, I would indulge in one of those delightful fine-paper Guardian Weeklies, until back in Australia a good friend bought me a subscription, till I was in a position to subscribe myself.
I have loved all the GW reincarnations, and still get a thrill when I take my Weekly out of the letterbox. The international news is brilliantly presented, the challenge of the crosswords and sudokus eagerly awaited, as are those futoshikis that fall like dominoes. I love articles on the environment and the arts, book and film reviews, long in-depth articles, the letters to the editor and especially George Monbiot. The GW not only supports my worldview, but enlarges and challenges it.
My six-year-old grandson is as eager as me for each new GW. He opens it up to the treasure of the middle pages and together, we make up stories to go with the photos. He then starts from the front and studies every photo and drawing, and asks me all about them.
My three-year-old grandson (pictured) will raid my little pile of GWs, awaiting their next home, if he needs to line a dam in the sandpit. I’ve told him to use the local paper, but he says it is just not as good.
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