© Provided by The GuardianPhotograph: EPA
In 1953, at the age of 16, I caught tuberculosis. I was in a sanatorium for 18 months. Antibiotics were new and bed rest and lots of fresh air were de rigueur. So I passed the summer of 1953 in a two-bed cubicle in the company of a 17-year-old mate, open to the lawn and trees before us, the stable doors closed only partially if the wind drove in the rain too fiercely.
That was the year that England regained the Ashes lost before the war, notable for, among several other epics, Willie Watson's and Trevor Bailey's rearguard day at Lord's that kept England in the hunt so that the series could be won at the Oval. It was all echoed in 2005.
We listened to radio commentary avidly and then read the Manchester Guardian report the day after just as avidly. There was a report too of every county fixture the Aussies played. They came for the entire summer and played every county. There were no one-day internationals and no Twenty20s. I made a scrapbook of every report and still have it.
I'm here still to tell my tale and to say thanks to the Manchester Guardian (I am a Manchester lad) for its crucial part in my recovery. Real therapy! I think that as a 16-year-old at the time I can be forgiven for not having interests that went much beyond the sports pages, but it did get me going for my lifelong need for my daily Guardian fix. The therapy has never waned. Thank you.
© Photograph: EPA'I now live in a small Norfolk village in a strong Tory constituency and whenever the paper isn't available the newsagent invariably substitutes either the Telegraph or the Times, but never the Independent.'
Don Borland
Saint Martin's, Shropshire
. As a national serviceman in November 1952, I was enlisted into the Royal Signals and posted to Catterick on a War Office selection board course. One of the first things we were told was that as potential officers we should read a broadsheet newspaper. A friend and I chose the Guardian, which obviously met a certain amount of opposition from higher-ups.
A medical at the same time revealed I was partly colour blind. After a successful visit to Barton Stacey (the equivalent to Sandhurst for national servicemen) I was offered a transfer as an officer to the admin side of the Royal Medical Corps and a posting to Korea.
As a born coward, I declined the offer and spent the rest of my non-commissioned two years on the admin side of the exotically sounding Army Phantom Signals Regiment, known as the Phantoms (David Niven was a captain in the regiment during the war), where reading the Guardian was seen as "quirky".
I now live in a small Norfolk village in a strong Tory constituency and whenever the paper isn't available the newsagent invariably substitutes either the Telegraph or the Times, but never the Independent. The battle to show what the paper stands for is far from being won.
Peter Bird
North Creake, Norfolk
. When I was a teenager living in Bexhill-on-Sea, a new minister arrived at the congregational church from the North of England. One of his sermons did not meet with universal approval. He preached that it was impossible to be a Christian and read the Daily Telegraph. My father, a local builder, was also not impressed by the fact that the minister was able to walk to the station mid-morning to collect his Manchester Guardian. However, when printing commenced in London the sceptic was persuaded to take both papers for a fortnight. From that point the Guardian was read exclusively in our household and by me, almost continuously, for the next 61 years.
Elizabeth JurdGreat Horkesley, Essex
. My father, Sir Francis Boyd, was a political journalist at the Guardian until his retirement in 1975. He was one of the first members of staff to be based in London, so I was born there (in 1947) rather than in Manchester. We had six or seven newspapers delivered daily (for a professional overview) - an old army ammunition box stood outside the front door to accommodate the delivery. My Guardian comes through the front door six days a week.
Elizabeth Monger
Plymouth
. People discover that the Guardian is the newspaper for them in many different ways (Letters, 12 May). For me, the initial attraction was the cryptic crossword, which was a regular lunchtime treat in our school sixth form in 1975. Even then, in callow youth, it was obvious to me that Araucaria was the bee's knees. From there, I graduated to Nancy Banks-Smith's TV reviews before later, eventually, beginning to read the news and comment sections. And the women's page. There are many routes to enlightenment, it seems.
Graham HeadLondon
. I went to the University of Sheffield, like Molly Pollitt (Letters, 12 May), and I'm now in my 50th year of being a Guardian reader (paper version). I recall the "Graduate with the Guardian" banner in the students' union kiosk, but what convinced me to move to the Guardian was the really cool fellow student in front of me who purchased a copy of the Guardian from the kiosk just as this working-class boy from London was about to purchase the Daily Mirror - the paper my parents read. I followed her lead - and have continued to do so. I wonder what she reads now.
John Boyle
Bishop's Stortford, Hertfordshire
. Molly Pollitt remembers her introduction to the Guardian at Sheffield in 1966 - no doubt a sturdier copy to the flimsy, irregular airmail arrival for me in the same year at a small missionary school in Sarawak as a Voluntary Service Overseas cadet. Sometimes late, always welcome.
Andrew Dean
Exeter
. In 1966 I was accepted by Voluntary Service Overseas as a cadet volunteer before going to university. It meant I could decide for myself what newspapers to buy. So I took out a subscription to the Guardian Weekly before setting out on the long trip to the Falkland Islands.
In my work as an itinerant teacher I was based on Pebble Island. Every few weeks I moved by air, and occasionally by sea and land, between two other settlements in West Falkland. With no phones and a monthly mail service, the arrival of Guardian Weekly in a mail drop was a high point. I usually received the paper four at a time, after the mail boat had arrived from Montevideo, Uruguay. Together with the BBC World Service, it was my only real contact with what was happening in Britain and the world.
Ever since the demise of the News Chronicle in 1960 I had felt a need for an alternative source of news and comment. In our house it was replaced by the Daily Telegraph - for the cricket, according to my dad - and only on occasions by the Guardian. Leaving home, as a politically active teenager, I relished the prospect of choosing my own newspaper - and I am still a regular Guardian reader (print edition) 55 years later.
Chas BallHuddersfield, West Yorkshire
. I worked for Anglia Television in Norwich from its start in 1959, and the Manchester Guardian was then a shareholder. So when members of the paper's board had a tour of the station I waylaid one of the group and asked why my paper was always a day late. I was told it was because it was printed in Manchester, but the problem would go away when the paper started a London printing. It did go away and I'm still reading it today.
Tony MeacockNorwich
. I've been "reading" the Guardian since 1963, when as a pre-schooler I wanted to know what the words said. The only time I managed to impress my English teacher at O-level was when I asked her if a letter we had been studying came from the Guardian (it did). Fifty-eight years later, my day is not complete without you.
Janet Hulme
Wadebridge, Cornwall
. David McKie, in his letter of 11 May, recalls the view from your office when the Guardian handed over documents that put Sarah Tisdall in jail for revealing the arrival of cruise (nuclear) missiles in the UK. Shortly afterwards Bodmin and District campaign for nuclear disarmament group travelled from Cornwall for a demonstration in London and, with a few hours to spare, went to the Guardian offices to express our dismay at the failure to protect your source for a story of international concern. We were quietly advised that the paper previously didn't have a shredder but had since bought one. We weren't impressed as fire was known to have been available in London for some time.
We went on to Holloway prison (where Sarah was held) and were met by a "journalist" who wanted to photograph us and take our names. When asked if he was a member of the NUJ he was uncomfortable, and when we suggested he may work for the government he was not convincing. I sometimes wonder what happened to those photos and also the recordings of our CND group's phone calls, which on a couple of occasions got played to me by mistake down the line.
After a couple decades of boycotting the Guardian following the disappointing reaction about how Sarah Tisdall was treated, I returned to the fold. I wish you well for the next 200 years and hope to continue reading your pages for some of them.
Robert Daws
Truro, Cornwall