Oh what a night...

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Ouch....

I think that just about sums up how I felt this morning.  Actually, from around 11.45 on Friday night if I'm completely honest.

It was a designated Charlie Friday night you see.  An occasion which gets lightly penciled onto my neighbours' calendars so that they don't forget.  An occasion where neighbours bring their own glasses and various odd looking (bottom shelf, no doubt) bottles of gin.  We supply the venue (the Wobble Box), the crucial vibes (Radio 2's Tony Blackburn, rapidly followed by Friday Night is Music Night), the vitals (barbecue this time) and even more gin.  

This is the fourth time we've had a Charlie Friday, and last night was the best one yet.  We actually managed to get thirteen people into our four berth caravan - if the clever bods at The Guinness Book of Records want to get in touch with me, I'm always happy to do a re-run to prove that this is possible.  Mind you, as the night wore on, some of the less hardy ones (Mr M next door wanted to know why we were sitting on our drive in a fibreglass box when we had a perfectly nice lounge to sit in) who found the acute invasion of personal space too much to bear, simply went and stood on our drive around the fire pit, while the husband flung various animal parts on there for the hungrier folk.

'Did you see that programme about living next door to gypsies?' asked one of my neighbours, as we stood around the fire watching the slow cremation of some perfectly good sausages.  I had, but didn't want to admit watching such drivel, so I shook my head.  'All you need is a bloody horse grazing on the front lawn, and I could have participated in that programme'...

So much was drunk and eaten, and we talked long into the night, with a little bit of dancing on the gravel as Sounds of the 80's was now on (ooh, Gary Davies, and all that).  As the party drew to a reluctant close, somebody asked why we all loved a Charlie Friday so much.  What was the appeal of sitting in a caravan with terrible music for seven hours?  Having given this some thought, I suggested that perhaps it's because it feels like a mini break.  A small pause from everyday stuff and a chance to catch up with good friends ( with nowhere to run).  I quite like that.

But getting up this morning, I knew I had jobs to do, and reluctantly headed into the Wobble Box with a bin liner.  The husband followed me in, and seeing the state of Charlie, muttered something about 'one bag not touching that'.  He was right.  I quarter filled my recycling wheelie bin with cans and bottles but you'll be pleased to hear that Charlie was returned to his usual decorous appearance after about fifteen minutes.

You couldn't say that for the husband, who even now, is still suffering.

Lightweight...


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