I've enjoyed two weeks without opening The Age now. I've strayed onto the website a few times, but I've been deriving my news from the BBC and comment on local issues from Crikey. My trips to the local cafe have been interesting -- the staff still think the first thing I'm looking for is the paper. At the weekend one of the waiters brought it over, thinking I'd been hanging around for someone to return it to the pile.
And, you know what? I don't think there's much to be missed about not reading a hardcopy paper every day. I've gone pretty much cold turkey since Mad Mandy became a regular columnist on The Age, and yet to suffer any sort of withdrawal. Giving up meat and chocolate at the beginning of Lent was much harder work. I'm even getting my crossword fix from a couple of sources on the internet (thankyou, Lovetts!).
Instead, I've been making my way through a steady pile of books. Half an hour in a cafe can get you most if not all the way through a chapter, with a nice gentle walk to help prime you up to begin and another stroll to help you absorb it after. Not grinding away after reading some inane commentary by a staff reporter has also done wonders for putting my grant application together.
Something tells me I shall soon be describing myself as a reformed media consumer. Not one of Rupert's paywall ponies, nor a glad recipient of Fairfax fluff (try this or this on for size, from someone I thought of quite highly until last week). Some aspects of this new identity came to light this morning. The barista at my local cafe told the new waiter that I have a long black, but used to read The Age -- apparently now I'm the book guy...
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