It was Wellington airport that did it. An hour-long flight home to Auckland, and nothing to read. My recurring nightmare. What to do? The airport newsagent. But no Weekly Telegraph? And none in stock behind the counter.
What now to do? What is this? The Guardian Weekly? That reading piece of the liberal bleeding-hearted, with almost no sports section. Could I really read this? Oh well. And that is how it started. That hour-long flight home. Now, I wouldn’t be without it. I even cancelled my New Zealand Herald subscription. How could I continue it, when the journalism of the Weekly is so joyful in comparison? Where I am hooked by every first paragraph?
Now, the Guardian Weekly is on subscription at my house, and accompanies me on all my work trips, and is read, entirely, piece-by-piece, in pubs and restaurants and cafes and bunting-dressed coach-party annexes, all over New Zealand.
And when I’ve finished with it? My partner reads it. And when she’s finished with it? I furtively leave it in work lunchrooms and bars, secretly hoping that someone will read it, and someone will be converted. That someone will turn from the superficial coverage of the glossy evening news and want to look beneath the surface, past all the usual assumptions, and find the deeper story. And do I still care about the small sports section? No, not really.
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