It is 10am in Liverpool and we are due to fly back to Jakarta the next morning at 9am. I've packed the bag which Connor and I share and have left some space for my toiletries and some other goodies we're going to buy later in the day to bring home.
Now, this suitcase I use has a lock that pops open. So we've resorted to using the key to lock it instead of the combination. I can't remember if we did lock it (with a key) this time since we made use of the bag-wrapping service at Soekarno-Hatta... you know where the guys wrap your bag up in clingwrap-y stuff so that no one can prise your bags open, key or no key?
Anyway.... Dear Hubby comes running up the stairs. "I can't find the suitcase key. We gotta find it or we can't lock the case!" Sigh. This is getting too damn familiar. "No, I did put it here! I put it here so that it would be safe and now it's missing!"
So we all look for the key. A really tiny suitcase key. Together with other tiny suitcase keys on a red keyring that says "Room No. 7". Drawers are pulled out, containers are emptied, we get on our hands and knees checking the carpet. Nothing. Finally, my brother-in-law makes a suggestion, "Why don't we just tape the case shut... you know, use the duct tape and go round the case?" Brilliant idea. Problem solved. I go downstairs to play with Connor.
When I come back up later, the two men are frantically pressing buttons on my suitcase. "What is it?" I ask. Dear Hubby looks up. "Well... I can't open the case." "What? What did you do?" "Well, we tried to re-set the combination lock to try and lock the case since we don't have the key... and we er.. locked it and now the combination doesn't work."
Boy. I could have exploded there and then. But I knew Dear Hubby was feeling bad enough already so I swallowed my temper. Bro-in-law had quietly and hurriedly sneaked away from Scene of an Impending Domestic Quarrel... smart fella!
The next day, we arrive at Manchester Airport with a roll of black duct tape and sans goodies I'd wanted to get but couldn't since we couldn't open up my case again. Dear Hubby tapes all the locks up in case they pop open and I know he'll have to break open the case later to get our clothes out. What a waste of an otherwise good case.
Some 20 hours and thousands of miles later, we open the front door to our home in Jakarta and what's on the dining table? A bunch of tiny suitcase keys on a red keyring that says "Room No. 7". Dear Hubby splutters in amazement, "But... but... I *did* bring the keys! I unlocked the case with them!"
I'm really too tired to argue.