Champagne Charlie...

Last night was the second of many Charlie Fridays.  

At one point last night, I did wonder whether it might be worth contacting those lovely people at Guinness to see what the current record for the number of people in a caravan is.  Luckily, some of the neighbours had made plans, so there was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing going on throughout the evening.  Most of this was made up of popping back to various homes to make sure that abandoned children weren't killing each other/watching porn/raiding the cocktail cabinet but all in all, it was another successful evening in the Wobble Box on the drive.

After looking at a picture on facebook which had been taken at 6.30pm, a friend of mine suggested that we name the caravan 'The Speakeasy'.  As I said to her, at midnight when we finally served an eviction notice to all the remainers, renaming it 'The Sleaze Box' might have been more apt.

I've not been out there this morning yet to clean up, but yet again, the empty gin bottles and pizza boxes will litter every horizontal surface.  Mind you, it only takes about three minutes to clear it up with a sweeping arm across the worktops into a waiting bin bag.  We've already booked the next one in a few weeks' time after we get back from our next bouts of snarling up the traffic in the south of the country.  The lovely thing about doing Charlie Fridays is that not all the same neighbours turn up each time (there are a couple who are committed Charlie Friday participants, but let's not name and shame....Mrs B and Mrs MM...)

While I'm on the subject of those I share a postcode with, you may remember that I mentioned that I have been solely responsible for the sad demise of my neighbour's floral pot collection, having forgotten to water them in the hottest week on record?  Well ladies, guilt got the better of me, and I traipsed down the garden centre yesterday after work, and bought several geraniums and trailing ivy so that I could repot them before she gets home later today.  

The trouble is, I haven't got the foggiest idea what was actually in the pots before her front border became Death Row.  Short of taking the dried up, crispy offerings down the garden centre, laying them out reverently on the counter, and asking the assistant what they were, my only option was to stick something in the pots and hanging basket which had a bit of colour (and life) in it.  Hence the geraniums.  The front of her house now looks less Sahara and more Kew and I hope that she forgives me for my tardy watering.

She's back later today.  

I better have the gin ready...