The boy who accidentally rubs his knees against her, sitting opposite him, suddenly touches the donkey. "Shit!" he moans. And he quickly gets up from his seat. Standing up, he puts the receiver to his ear. A woman in work uniform, who was standing—the train is moving like a clam at this time—quickly takes the empty seat. "Mom!" the boy says. "I missed my stop!" He listens to explanations, obviously, and then says: "Okay, I'll call the Pope! God, God." The girl pricks up her ear. "Dad! I missed my stop! Yes, in Pallejà. Yes, yes. Now." Silence, and again: "Well, look, what do I know... I'm a total idiot! I was looking at my phone and... Yes, until now."

The great singer Maricel Baladre has a meeting that will change her life. There's a radio host who wants to offer her a section on celebrity magazines with his fresh and casual point of view. sponsored by a funeral home, if necessary. roots, but emphasizes that she's in a hurry.

These RACC commercials on Catalunya Ràdio have me captivated. They're people making bumpy trips. One went to Vietnam and rented a motorcycle, even though he couldn't drive, so he broke his leg (lucky RACC). Another was taking her son to Erasmus, but the car broke down (lucky RACC). There's also one who's going to Mexico, I'd say, and has a stomach ache. It wasn't diarrhea. It was appendicitis ("la pendis," as we used to say when we were kids), and they brought him home on a medically-equipped plane (lucky RACC).

"Hello, Montserrat, is that correct?" asks the female voice with a Colombian accent. "No, no, that's not correct.", "He calls Mrs. Prim, while he adjusts his hearing aid."Look, I'm talking to you about the address on Salamanca Street, is that correct?", then, says the woman's voice with a Colombian accent. And she then wants to tell him no, not one, but she stops suddenly, and instead of hanging up she says: "Tell me, tell me... Do you understand Catalan?".

Dear Anna Manso, I'm writing to you, using the epistolary method that usually characterizes us letter-wounded, because the other day you wrote an article in the ARA that filled my heart with soot. It said: "Person who doesn't know me at all, don't tell me pretty". You explained, tired of aesthetic pressure, how often men say that to you. With examples. In a phone store, at the supermarket, in a restaurant... You said that this isn't about beauty and that men, on the other hand, aren't told this.

A round red sticker has appeared on the door of the women's and wheelchair-accessible restroom at the public service station, reading: "Menstrual restroom. Place suitable for storing pads and tampons." woke. Thank you very much. Lucky you.

I ask him how the mother is, because I know that she went to look after her for a few days, that she is very old.

Once again, Mrs. R. told the family that the sink was filthy, that it couldn't be that she took a shower and didn't remove the hairs from the toilet seat, that the toilet bowl was disgusting, like the one in a cheap boarding house, which couldn't be. And her children and husband, once again, promised they would clean it (on Saturday, as they're very tired during the week). On Sunday, Mrs. R. sent a photo of the filth—enlarged—to the family chat. Today, having abandoned all hope, she comes home from work (she works as a proofreader in a publishing house) and sits down.

When the street cats hear the noise of the dilapidated car, they come out of their hiding places, because they already know it's time to eat.

When the street cats hear the sound of the dilapidated car, they come out of their hiding places, because they already know it's time to eat.