At the age of 14 I learned that delicacy distinguishes the infinitive amputate from the softer verb extirpate. My mother had had a breast removed. It pained me to hear in the town where she was born: "Ezequiela has had a breast cut off in Pamplona". Franco had not yet died, but I didn't care. He died on a Thursday. So did my mother. But they only gave me a party. It was raining a downpour and I remember my father's raincoat on the entrance of the high school wet with footsteps. Because recess was over, and that was when life climbed the stairs to normality without news. When everyone else had, besides 13 or 14, a mother who could wait for them at home at snack time. When 'TV' existed in black and white and there was no La 2 but UHF, which almost never looked good.

I did not inherit, it seems, the good things from the Urbiolas. Neither their green or long and semitransparently blue eyes. Nor the noble features, nor knowing how to complain in a cheerful voice whenever necessary, nor the demeanor of the beautiful with a penchant for ruin. I simply kept that tendency to read newspapers wherever I was, to believe that in matters of support with money one must also keep one's pocket on the left. I had the heritage of knowing that Education goes hand in hand with freedom. That is to say, I inherited some rather useless but essential things.

For useful, in any case, the classes. I spent -I lived- quite a few Thursday afternoons of the first semester course, during some happy years, in the classroom 6 of the School of Communication, at the University of Navarra. Trying not to crumble the dreams of 19 or 20 year olds who wanted to be screenwriters, producers, newscasters, documentary filmmakers. Kids who wouldn't mind having their hair fall out, like Francis Ford Coppola or Stanley Kubrick, directing passionate, irreproachable films. Girls ready to have their first child in their forties. Two walls over, a classmate was, and still is, with the specialization program students from advertising and Public Relations. Mine, from Audiovisual Communication, the risky ones with prematurely bald heads and girls with talent and strength, were tired of hearing me say that "reading is rereading" and "writing is rewriting". And sometimes, to shock them with realism, I would tell them that commercials are not recorded to win awards, but to make the audience stay with the brand. And to sell. As those who pay the advertising in the agencies want. As advertisers are looking for. Humility is true.

This advertisement is different. Clara returns to high school to have the book opened to page 38. She has closed the door on breast cancer. She hardly gives a thought to the word knotted on the board: 'Welcome'. Nor does she care to advertise sanitary napkins. The 'spot' is essentially fine. It transmits. It inherits emotions. It has been made by the agency Contrapunto. They are good, although they don't always control where to put the accents in hiatuses. Typical of advertisers. Some still don't know how to write "Para ti", the core topic to advertise. Of course: the most titiquisiquis will say that Ausonia's 'spot' is unreal. That there are no classrooms like this even in Finland. But it doesn't matter. It may be implausible -not for me: I believe it-, but it tells an irreplaceable truth: like a prosthesis in the left breast. The one closest to the heart. I know from Dr. Pérez Cabañas that some men also suffer from breast cancer.

The complete advertisement of Contrapunto for Ausonia and the association Española Contra el Cáncer (AECC) has thirty-five shots and lasts one minute fourteen. I have found a lack of 'raccord' in the book that the 'profa' wants to reopen. But that's the least of it. On TV they broadcast a twenty-second spot. They are enough to put a pink handkerchief to the action, to conquer minute by minute research and advance.

That's why I want my household to buy Ausonia pads, even if they are not used, and I want each box to be good for a few tictacs from research. Each package, one more minute. And let's hear Luz Casal's voice. And of course, the brand should show its face and tell us how many hours of laboratory and white coats it has paid for and where. And if those with money have taken advantage of the time. Lest Thursdays, the trench coat, the verb 'to cut' and that Clara does not have colored scarves and hearts and brains in the desks. And everything will be a simple ministry.