There’s few things I miss about home. But when a big British story breaks then two of them combine to make me a little homesick.
Last night, if I’d been in the UK, I would have gone to the pub after work. I would have talked rubbish late into the night about legacies, formative political experiences, the Falkland Islands, Billy Bragg, the unions, Tony Blair, nostalgia, Rupert Murdoch and so on.
Then this morning I would have spread out the papers and done it all again over a cup of coffee. There has been some utterly brilliant writing this morning, on which ever side of the Thatcher divide you stand.
Pubs and newspapers are still the thing for a proper story. And I think that makes me a dinosaur.