Besides the fact that Sunday is the day of the father (no, I am not really religious), Sunday doesn’t mean much to me from a day’s perspective.
When I was a Child my Grandparents took me to church every Sunday I stayed at their house. It didn’t bother me. I even liked it, and if I remember correctly one of my job ideas in elementary school was to become a Priest.
Since I was in Graz with my Mother yesterday and on Friday I had a small barbeque, I didn’t do much in the new Apartment again.
Until today, I woke up somewhat early at nine am and prepared some stuff. My mother called, as we agreed that today, Sunday, has to be the day where we will bring the new washing machine into the new Apartment and also paint some walls.
As my father isn’t really a painter he and my brother left us pretty quickly after they helped to bring the washing machine to the second floor. Now it was on my mother and me, she started painting the ceiling in my bedroom and I started collecting the plastic from the washing machine and the fridge, which we brought up a week ago.
Now, the day is over, my bedroom is almost finished (the ceiling got a white paint, two walls a light grey and the third wall is now separated to get another two colors, the fourth wall will be painted grey again after I am finished with the cable work).
After the plastic was collected I started working on the kitchen paint again. Three-fourths of the kitchen are now painted white and I know why I didn’t become a painter man. :)