My introduction to the Guardian Weekly came from a loyal friend. “I don’t see why you should lead a Rip Van Winkle existence while the rest of us have to endure mayhem,” she wrote, explaining her subscription for me.
I was beginning my final teaching contract in Brunei. Saddam Hussein had started the first Gulf war and the local reaction was one of unconditional support, with no acknowledgement of Kuwait’s plight. The Weekly was an oasis of sanity in what seemed a crazy world.
Eight deeply satisfying years later, I retired to the UK eager for fresh news. Dismayed by the size of the broadsheets, I went back to the GW. For the past 28 years its world coverage has gone further than most to satisfy my hunger.
Weekly reporters give substance to the headlines and analysis I can trust. The photos are dramatic, the book reviews open my mind, as does the excellent What I’m really thinking column, while Sudoku is compulsive. I read the GW from cover to cover, then bundle up copies to send to my daughter in Tanzania, as she too appreciates the quality.
I have another daughter living in the US and a sister in Australia – how many of your readers, I wonder, also with family abroad rely on the Weekly to keep abreast of events in distant lands? So you see, despite dwindling savings and rising costs, I am still hooked.
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