Locked out

I'm not in the best of moods now. DH has just gone back home to meet the locksmith who supposedly's going to unlock the menace. The only time, only time I hadn't reminded him of "did you bring the keys" before the heavy fire-maindoor slammed and the silly DH forgot the keys. They were hanging at the noticeboard just beside his wallet and the door.

We were in a bit of a hurry this morning. Lindfield Craft Market. 3 words I won't be forgetting for a while. I grit my teeth as I write this. We woke early to catch the best, which was what we usually do for markets. Insert famous catchphrase here ("early bird catches the worm" ring a bell?) We went there bright and early, all dressed up, me in my layers - black skinny denim pants, red summer dot dress over and a blue denim jacket plus my swanky new Paul Frank wellies. I thought I'd commit the cardinal sin of wearing denim with denim; something I'd never do, but I figure the dress bought me a whole panel of seperation between the jacket and pants. Oh well. Arriving at Lindfield, DH assured me he'd checked the map and had it in his head, he even did a demeandering action of poking his temples. Men....*eye roll*

He lead the way, all over Lindfield but no market in sight. It was a quiet saturday morning with just a handful of people walking their dogs or off somewhere. It was horrible to be walking up and down hill all over the suburb, with no breakfast. My ankles and back were aching before we decided to give the whole thing up. No market, no breakfast and no hope. The only postitive thing worth mentioning was we got a walking tour of Lindfield and DH bothered to ask the people around if there was going to be a market today. The North Side Courier lied. They usually don't. In fact, the listing for this particular market didn't come with a calling number. The rest did. I guess I should've been more suspicious.

Dragging our tired cabosses, we arrived at Chatswood, inbetween our place and St Leonards and Lindfield, its a shopping town of food and salvation. Barely 2 bites into my breakfast of a 6-inch sub, DH asked if I had the key. Then all hells broke loose. The rest writes itself.

So here I am now, with my credit card abducted by DH ("I'll pay you later" he said), the only solace is to sit at this Everywhere Internet terminal furiously typing away. And yes, I've discovered that the the Everywhere Internet in the city demands a different account then the one here. Why the hell would they call this Everywhere Internet when its obviously isn't everywhere?!

I'm inclined to blame everyone, myself included for this lousy episode. What have we learnt today, boys and girls? Northside Courier and DH are not to be trusted. In fact, I'll like to add that most services & hell, everything in Sydney is not to be trusted. I must regard everything in suspicion from now on. What a tough life!