The Guardian was the newspaper that would fill my Saturday mornings when I lived at the top of the house in Finsbury Park. Of course, I could never finish the whole thing in one morning, but I would pick out the best bits and savour the rest over the next few days. There was always so much to read - great book reviews, interesting news stories, travel articles, opinions, letters to the Editor, that great little nature column..... the list goes on - a veritable feast.
Now I get my Guardian fix every day via the online version. I have ceased to be irritated that the US version is the default page on view and that I have to click on the icon to get the UK version. After all, I live here now and should be keeping up with news on this side of the Atlantic before finding out about the latest political nightmare unfolding back home. I try not to get sucked in to the Comment Is Free section - I should champion free speech and not feel as though some people would be best keeping their comments to themselves.
I often take a look at the property galleries - Snooping Around and Trading up, Trading down - to see where I could be living if I was back in the home country. I am a sucker for the country cottages with huge gardens that I imagine are on the edge of an idyllic village, complete with steepled church, country pub and cricket green. But in reality, I know the UK is not the green and pleasant land of song, and that my memories are viewed through those pastel shaded filters that block out the Daily Mail rantings and societal inequities.

Arriving late to the blog party, I thought I might try and write about what I'm reading and see where that leads me in my rambles.
It's a glorious, sunny, spring day, here in Seattle and I've just sent an email to my dear friend, Stephanie, who lives in Lincoln. One half of me is always in the UK - part of living half a world away from the place you were born, I think.
 Right now, I have on loan from my good friend Jen K "The End of Your Life Book Club", by Will Schwalbe. Jen recommended it to me when we were talking about conversations you have with someone who knows they are dying. Those who know me will know the relevance of this topic.

The author accompanies his mother to her chemo sessions and while they sit, they talk about books. They have their own Book Club for 2, suggesting books to one another and discussing those they have read. Anyone who belongs to a book club knows that when the members gather to talk, their conversations meander far and wide, sometimes the book can be a springboard to so much else and when the book doesn't promote the topics, they arise by themselves from whatever is going on in the lives of the group members. I've been a member of my book group for about ten years and those 5 women have heard so many stories and secrets of my life and supported me through many struggles and shared my joys. I would be adrift without them. As Schwalbe says, "We talked about the books and we talked about our lives." (p 7)
So far I'm only up to chapter 4 and already I'm making a list of books for future reads. I have endless lists of books written on scraps of paper tucked into the back of notebooks and diaries. In addition to lists, I have stacks of books dotted around the house, waiting for me to pick one up and reveal the treasure it holds. When will there ever be the time to read them all?