In 1963, aged 14, I lived near Abbey Road and the Beatles. My stepfather was working in Geneva and for some insane reason it was decided we should all go and live there and leave London and the Beatles behind.
I was devastated. And furious.
Once installed in a country where you had to be 18 to see My Fair Lady, with no pirate radio and where one couldn’t buy the News Of The Screws, all things not Swiss but British became important.
I listened to The Archers and started reading the Manchester Guardian, which my stepfather got in his diplomatic bag – along with corn flakes and Russian cigarettes.
I tried the Quick crossword. I soon became an addict. I’ll read any newspaper if it’s lying there but the Guardian is one I’ll pay attention to.
Ten years living in the Rockies in the US was a time of reading online and asking visitors to bring me a Guardian; there’s nothing like a real paper copy, until I noticed an ad for the Weekly. Oh, bliss! I’ve been subscribing ever since.
Sometimes I get a backlog but, however old the issues are, there is always something to read. But I still can only do the Quick crossword.
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