Read it and weep

We had some visitors from home yesterday.

Debra and Alan turned up with an odd collection of essential items from home that they had kindly tucked into their suitcases – the three shoes Evie had left at my parent’s house, some tea and some string (thanks Mum!), a set of kissing koala salt and pepper shakers unearthed by my shopping genius friend Jenny. (What? Doesn’t every home need one?)

But most importantly, they brought Saturday’s Sydney Morning Herald. Honestly, tears nearly came to my eyes when Alan produced it. He could have no idea what a passionate reader of the weekend Herald I am and how much I’ve missed it.

Yes, I know I can read it online. But I miss the font, the pictures, the inky smell. I miss seeing how everything is arranged on the page, which is as much a pleasure for me as the words. I miss the little articles they don’t bother to put up online. I have found a website where I can buy pdf versions of almost any newspaper in the world, so I have been using that to get a sense of the page, but it’s tedious work really. Stabbing at the keyboard every time you want to shift the view, being unable to flick your eyes to the photo of a profile subject when the journalist describes their face. It’s not how humans read. (It’s also not how dogs or elephants read, either, but you get my point.)

I have also made do with some late, abridged hardcopy versions of London weekend papers, but they don’t speak my language. I started reading the Herald when I was a word-hungry child and was reading everything in the house, and it still is what I think of when someone says the word ‘newspaper’. I travelled by train, bus or ferry from the age of nine next to be-suited office workers struggling to read the broadsheet on public transport (often standing up, supported by the crush of commuters). I read many an interesting article and attempted the cryptic crossword over their shoulders (or under the arms, depending on how crowded the train was).

When I lived on the other side of the country I prevailed upon my local newsagent to order the Saturday Herald in for me, and I picked it up faithfully every Monday morning, then eked it out to a week’s worth of reading. (Needless to say, currency is not the most important aspect of news, in my opinion – a week-old story doesn’t bother me.)

I’ve been published in it, worked for the company that owns it, and railed against its decline (too small now, too many typos, etc). But it still says home to me. Thanks Debra and Alan.

What says home to you?