On a fogbound January morning, the diarist borrows a line from Serrat’s Fiesta to title his notes, hoping the refrain will lift a mood dulled by post-holiday fatigue. The morning is thick with haze, a dull reluctance hanging in the air. Relief arrives after surviving the Christmas gathering, which brought fourteen relatives into the house, two brothers-in-law and a sister-in-law among them, a dinner full of risk. He sets the playlist and hums along, first with Abba’s Waterloo, then with Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive, both chosen to coax a pulse back into the day. By the time the last chorus fades, a slight sense of steadiness returns, yet the path ahead through January and February looms, unwelcome and real, with no Jon Snow to defend him and no Daenerys to ease the way.
Wednesday arrives with the same fog on the mind. He is still wrestling with the logistics of tucking a zambomba into the storage, while every TV segment carries talk of a long, heavy anniversary and the political reverberations around it. The fatigue has become a weather pattern; he wonders aloud who sent which email and for what reason, who knew what, who deleted numbers, who forgot passwords, who cloned devices. A long procession of people seems to stand in for the modern machinery of communication: three heads of communication, seven secretaries, fourteen chiefs of staff, around seventy prosecutors, and a band of journalists waiting for a decision on something that matters. If he tried to explain it to Gila and offer a number, one could imagine Gila turning it into a work of art that would endure beyond centuries. The Franco commemoration lingers, echoing the same frictions, the same questions. A quip comes to mind credited to Victoria Beckham about Madrid and garlic, a reminder that some truths feel sharper than policy in a crowded city.
Thursday holds a different appetite. He recalls the chocolate and the roscón, a pastry he loves, and the preference for roscón without cream, chocolate, or sour notes. He begins watching a Netflix documentary about Dabiz Muñoz, the force behind DiverXO, and the screen reveals a mind that works with brutal focus and a sense of purpose that borders on ritual. Each bite in the narrative seems to trigger a cascade of why, a justification rooted in craft that makes the ordinary extraordinary. Yet the diarist also suspects the cult of the great chef, where family recipes become assets and price tags climb into the seven figures, stretching the idea of cooking as friendly act beyond recognition. He has never been drawn to long runs of MasterChef and distrusts the cook-culture fever that saturates screens, magazines, and talk shows. With the exception of Arguiñano, the rest feel like noise in a crowded room. The obsession with culinary royalty stands in sharp contrast to the everyday meal, a contrast he cannot ignore. This perspective aligns with what the Netflix documentary on Dabiz Muñoz presents.
Friday lands with a recurring rhythm. After several days back in the rhythm of work, the mind loosens the last grip of the holidays and the memory of marzipan fades into routine. He reaches for James Clear’s Atomic Habits, drawn by the promise that tiny, almost invisible steps can cause big waves of change. The book pins down a core idea: the most effective shift comes not from chasing outcomes but from shaping the person one wants to be. The diarist nods along and dreams of becoming someone who craves a nap rather than a dramatic overhaul, who can drop a well-placed curse now and then, and who can skip oat milk without wincing, complete a few simple exercises in a chair, and endure shorter fasts when progress seems stuck. It is not the leap but the tempo that counts, he thinks, and he resolves to pursue sustainable adjustments rather than impossible, heroic leaps.
By week’s end, the diary remains a map of ordinary life—small rituals, minor victories, and the stubborn awareness that life rarely resembles a movie. The pages measure how easy it is to slip into a stream of screens and loud headlines and how just a handful of deliberate, small moves can tilt the balance toward steadier energy. The entries affirm a stance: patience, regularity, and humor trump drama when it comes to building a life that feels solid. The January stretch is a test of resilience, not a sprint of spectacular breakthroughs, and the final thought lingers: progress accumulates when one keeps showing up, day after day, with honesty about what’s working and what isn’t, allowing time to heal, recalibrate, and quietly improve.