When I was a child, my father used to tell me he looked forward to his retirement, when he would live in a caravan at the bottom of my garden like a hermit, only coming out occasionally, stinking of whiskey, to belch and fart and generally be a pain in the arse.
It took until I was in my mid thirties, but my Dad was good as his word. Except rather than the bottom of the garden, the camper is parked at the front of our house. My parents are what you would term grey nomads, and although they say it’s lovely staying with us for 4 weeks out of the year, the real reason they camp where they do is to avoid site fees before and after they embark on their adventure around Australia. They come and sit with us for dinner, my mother does the odd chore, and Dad and the BBF have a beer before dinner (or three). It’s great having them to stay, and I don’t want to sound like that ungrateful child who selfishly refuses to accommodate her ailing parents, but if the weather doesn’t start to clear soon, their plans to leave this weekend may be changing, and the quarters are close.
Fortunately the neighbours don’t seem to have a problem with it, with Paul from number one commenting ‘it probably drives the street’s real estate prices skyward – it’s a pretty nice campervan’.