I hate it when I screw up.

I don't think anyone enjoys making mistakes, but I get really bummed out when a frustrating situation is all my own doing.

We went away for the weekend, to Townsville - a small, coastal city in North Queensland where David and I lived for a few years, about a million years ago. It honestly feels like forever since we lived there, but it was only January 2003 that we packed up our lives and moved from the Gold Coast to sunny FNQ, so David could "get his start" in radio. We were there 3 years before he got picked up by a radio station in Sydney, and we high-tailed it outta there in December 2005.

But, we left behind some lovely places and even lovelier friends, so we try to trip back there every 12 months or so for nostalgia sake. One of fave old haunts was a restaurant called Scirocco's Cafe - they make a risotto that's to die, and a dessert called 'Ooey Gooey Chocolate Fudgey Balls'. I Know Right?!

So as soon as we booked our flights for this cheeky weekender, we made reservations at Scirocco's. By Saturday night, I was salivating. We rocked up to the restaurant at 7.30, and, horror of horrors, the restaurant was closed for a private function.

I was dirty. I can be a brat when things don't pan out, so I was full of unpublishable expletives, and I pledged to never return. "They didn't even call to let us know!" I ranted. "How freaking rude! I'm never going back there. EVER!"

We moved on to a cute little Thai restaurant and had a great evening anyway with our friends, another couple who live in Townsville.

Today, we flew back to Sydney. This afternoon I was telling my friend - who also once lived in Townsville, and who also adores Scirocco's - about our crappy experience.

And then, I remembered Wednesday.

I'd had a busy week with my folks in town, loads of work on (what GFC?) and domestic chores up to my neck - we've just moved house, so we're still knee deep in "moving house" tasks.

Wednesday was particularly jam-packed, and I remembered missing a bunch of calls when I was in a work meeting. I hadn't checked all my messages, as the missed calls looked to be all from hubby - and the messages are usually just him asking me to pick up milk, or buy weetbix, or get some cash out. So, there were 7 messages on my phone, un-heard. Shit.

I quickly dialled message bank, and whaddya know? Message number 4, between my mum's query about registering website domain names (why?!) and David asking me to grab some coffee beans from the local, was from Sheree:

"Hi Sarah, it's Sheree from Scirocco's. Just letting you know we've been booked for a private function this Saturday, so we're going to have to cancel your reservation..."

Double shit. So, it was all my fault. I ate humble pie, and emailed our dining friends from Saturday night to claim full responsibility. I tried to be all, "Well, we had a great night at Thai anyway, so it probably all worked out for the best!" but really, I feel stupid. Fooled by technology again! That'll teach me for not checking my voicemails..