I don’t know why you haven’t met me before now, because I must be among some of your oldest readers.
My parents began to take the Manchester Guardian when I was born in 1935 in order to enhance my education, and I was expected to peruse it as soon as I learned to read. No other paper was in the home where we lived in North Cheshire on the edge of Manchester, so, along with Arthur Mee’s Children’s Encyclopaedia, this was my introduction to the wide world.
When I went to the grammar school in the city sometimes I would be allowed to take the paper to read on the bus journey. In the city centre, visiting Cross Street was always a thrill to see where the great paper had its headquarters. Once, I was taken to a party by a then boyfriend at the home of the editor, that was another thrill.
I remember seeing a picture of Winston Churchill reading the newspaper on a train, captioned “A Manchester Guardian Reader”.
Then there was a hiatus when I lived abroad and I missed the paper, but when we immigrated to Canada we resumed The Guardian Weekly, and I have lived happily ever after.
