What could a Sunday story be all about? What could Sunday possibly have to say, what with its protracted yawning, newspapers scattered around the place, delicious smells emanating from the kitchen, and Monday waiting in the wings? When we were kids, we thought Sunday was a day of fun and games for us and for adults alike. We were far too short to see right down to the bottom of the day. And when we grew up in our turn, it was only to find that Sundays aren’t full of joy; they’re only half-filled, because from the middle and beyond they bear a melancholy load. And it was these Sunday stories that found their way into Sunday’s Eleftherotypia and the Macedonia on Sunday. And they were all written on a Monday morning – the deadline for Sunday’s papers. It was just like being back at school!