Upon entering the sunday market you are greeted by the overwhelming smell of hot jam donuts and other diabetes inducing morsels frying in oil that should have been changed two hours ago. Your eyes dart back and forth in a futile attempt to find even just one somewhat decent looking stall, anything to justify the entry fee.

Large dark patches of sweat surface on your shirt from this state of financially induced panic and you decide to buy a drink to cool down. Upon approaching one of the many "food" trucks present at the market, one huge man; fryer oil and kitchen filth 0covering his apron, approaches you and asks in a booming, pack-a-day voice "What do you want mate?". You calmly ask for a can of sprite and he bends down and grabs a slightly cool can from the struggling refrigerator. You reach into your wallet and hand over your second five dollar bill of the day, expecting at least two dollars in change.To your shock and horror, the man puts the cash in the till and closes it, and bids you a good day.

A cyclone of rage, confusion and disgust swells inside you, but to leave the market now would be to admit defeat and being ten dollars down already you manage to justify staying through sheer sunk cost fallacy and stubbornness. After all, how is this any different to putting ten dollars on the more chili machine at the Grand?

I give you the sunday market experience.