sunday-funday

Sunday Fun-Day — How to Enjoy the Art of Doing Nothing Right

Posted on by drvspan

Woke up at 07:30.
That’s not a Sunday time.
But I had things to do outside the house — so much for sleeping in.
That’s 50 kilometers of driving before coffee, by the way.

Then I helped a friend set up his new TV and the computer I had just fixed for him.
Three hours later we were finally eating — still no idea why it took that long.
Maybe it’s just Sunday physics: time bends, tools disappear, cables multiply, and nothing connects the first time.

After that?
Another 50-kilometer drive to pick up my girlfriend from work and back home.
The road was calm, music loud, sun in that “lazy afternoon” mood.
I thought I’d finally have some alone game time — just me, my controller, and zero responsibilities.

Guess what?
More things popped up.
Calls, errands, plans I didn’t even know existed.
No game time for me.

But hey — that’s a Sunday.
“Sunday Fun-Day,” they say.
And maybe they’re right.
Because sometimes the best Sundays aren’t the quiet ones,
but the ones that remind you life’s not a checklist — it’s a messy, funny timeline of things you didn’t plan but still did.

So yeah — no game time.
But a full day nonetheless.
Unscheduled, unexpected, unapologetically Sunday.

patatas-post

From Survivor to Smiling: Patata’s First Park Day Adventure! Amazing!

Posted on by drvspan

Saturday mornings usually smell like pine trees.
Our mountain walks under the tall trees, the quiet paths, the wind carrying stories from far away.
That’s Patata’s comfort zone.
The wilderness.

For six years, she lived that way — a survivor.
A 13-kilo mix of courage and curiosity, found last Easter in a small Greek village.
Half-wild, half-wonder.
She didn’t know parks.
She didn’t know what it meant to just play.

Today, she learned.

Our first park day — not night, not shadows under the lamps — but full daylight, grass, and dogs everywhere.
At first, she stayed close, ears back, scanning every bark and tail.
Then slowly, she started to move.
A sniff here, a wag there.
And then, almost shyly, she joined a game of chase.

It wasn’t wild mountain freedom.
It was something new: belonging.

Watching her run — awkward at first, then joyful — felt like watching a memory rewrite itself.
The survivor turned explorer.
The stray turned someone’s dog.

We came home tired, dusty, and happy —
and I think, for both of us, it was the start of a new kind of adventure.