by Luis Ramoneda Molins
Sunday, 25 January 1970
Yesterday, during Isabel and Juanjo’s wedding in San Pedro, I thought about writing a diary. This morning, when I went to buy bread and the newspaper, I took the opportunity to buy the notebook with blue covers that I’m now using for the first time. It’s five past six in the evening, it’s getting dark, the furtive cold is trying to seep in through the window slits of my room. My mum reads in the leaving room, accompanied by some of Telemann’s flute concerts. Grandpa must be still at the casino. From today onwards, it will be just the three of us. This morning, the remaining relatives that hadn’t left yesterday took off, except for Uncle Alberto, who had lunch with us; I’ve just said goodbye to him at the bus station where he took the four thirty bus headed to Madrid. In the capital, he will take a train headed to Segovia, where he lives. Without meaning to, he influenced my purpose, because last Christmas he gifted me “Diario de un cazador”, which I read in one sitting. Yesterday I lent it to Manolo.