I lived in London on Fournier Street, off Brick Lane, in 1967, working the door at The Roundhouse and finishing a degree at Goldsmiths art school. I got two job interviews, both at £10 weekly: one at the Guardian and one selling carbon paper over the phone. Foolishly, I chose the carbon paper one, as it offered commission. I was hopeless and left after three weeks.
Five years later I was nursing babies by an Aga in the Cotswolds, and the Guardian became my lifeline. Posy Simmonds and Jill Tweedie were my comfort and the Cryptic crossword my daily triumph. I struggle with the Quick one now.
In 1982, after Thatcher came to power, we moved to New Zealand with four children and subscribed to the airmailed Guardian Weekly. My sister reckoned the paper was ideal for cleaning windows but I rarely did that, hoarding my treasured copies to give to my allies in my new Auckland neighbourhood.
Thirty-seven years on, here I am lying in bed, clicking the Guardian Brexit dramas on my phone at three in the morning. O lucky me to be safely here ... and, whatever the format and distance, still within reach of the Guardian.
