… the task is really quite simple: go home, close the door, sit down on the sofa – and wait until the scare is over, a few days, a few weeks. What is even a month when equated to life itself? Quite apart from that: haven’t you always wanted to spend more time with your children, yes even with your husband, your wife, precisely the person at your side?
And haven’t you always complained that holidays were much too short, year on year, barely arrived, barely relaxed, and it’s time to get back to the grindstone, pursue your career, this vague dream of eternal happiness, peppered with your persistent anxiety that the cash might run out at any time, especially when you’re old? And were you one of those who – only three or four weeks ago – joined in the chorus in the bars and restaurants that there was really no need to take this virus thing seriously? What do bats from China have to do with us? That’s something for Sun readers, and anyway: have a round of Corona on me!
And now you are actually sitting there, on your sofa, in your sweatpants and slippers, holding the remote control, and you realise that “spending more time with the children” is a bit more tricky… especially when they play the flute, flute, flute the whole damned day. You sit there wondering where you took a wrong turn, you and her, you and him, both of you in fact, noticing for the first time how loud your partner’s breathing is. You are suddenly still awake at all hours, sending one WhatsApp text after another, even to people you haven’t had anything to do with for ages (for good reason… plus the fact that some of them have popped their clogs). You clear out the kitchen cupboards and rearrange them, and have to admit that the highlight of your day was clearing decades-old scraps of cheese from your sandwich maker, which no longer works anyway.
And why the hell are all the people outside clapping yet again, while you are falling asleep in front of the third repeat of the sixth episode of the twelfth season of MacGyver…?
The world is at a standstill – but it is still turning, relentlessly. Nevertheless: it gives us pause. And sufficient reason to look back at a sunny day at the end of March last year when we sat together in the Bar Italia, the managing director of this magazine and the author of these lines, and said: let’s do this magazine – and we started; sufficient time to look back on the stories we have already told you, about Woodstock, for example, and Banksy, about Málaga and Seville, about Max von Thun, Anton, the Dude, and also about Manolo Rincón. Among others.
It goes without saying that we would like to have told you some new stories this month in our magazine which, including the zero pilot issue, now appears for the tenth time, stories about, for example, the world-famous Easter parades in Andalusia – except that they won’t be taking place; about the sights of Cordoba, that wonderful city – except that you are not allowed to go there; about golf courses you are not allowed to play on, lovely cars you are not allowed to buy, lovely boats you are not allowed to sail. And we decided against it – in favour of, we hope, an interesting and inspiring retrospective, for one thing is always certain in these uncertain times: good times will be back. Sooner than you think. For us – and for you.
But for now: stay on your sofas. And make an occasional visit to www.thefinest-magazine.com. We are still writing – from our sofas. For you out there – for you in there.
Your masked team at the finest