She stepped out, Hughesy tapped away, and around midday it was time to grab a cab and make our way towards Mascot, and along the way there was evidence that God Friday wasn't quite the commercial neverland I'd expected.
Reaching King Street, it was obvious that much of downtown Newtown was, in fact, open for business, and we could well have killed quite a bit of time wandering through the environs. Still, we were in plenty of time for the flight, and once checked in there was nothing for it but to sit and wait, though sitting and waiting in the bar over a James Squire has plenty to recommend it.
The flight itself was uneventful, and by five we were on a bus headed north towards Southport, another uneventful trip, at least until we reached the vicinity of the Tedder Avenue turnoff, where we ran into a northbound traffic snarl of no mean proportions.
A comment over the two-way in the bus suggested that the cause was a police random breath test on the other side of the Sundale bridge, a suggestion that seemed to be confirmed by the presence of two cars with flashing red and blue lights when we passed the spot in question some forty-five minutes later. It had taken us, in other words, about as long to progress from Tedder Avenue to Australia Fair, a distance of just over two and a half kilometres, as it had to cover the other twenty-five and a bit from the airport to the northern end of Surfers.
Sneesh.
A quick supper, a glass of wine and the two of us were, predictably, pushing up Zs soon after eight. With a big day coming up Old Hughesy was gong to be taking all the beauty sleep he could get, and, as has been frequently remarked, he needs every bit of it that he can get.