Our home is sick. Actual #vanlife
When you’re forced to live in a van, the sensible thing to do is surely to buy a nice, new and dependable van that won’t let you down.
When we were forced to live in a van, we bought a 15 year old Honda Odyssey that’s had 8 previous owners. Based on little more than the exterior paintwork, we thought it’d serve us well. Sadly, shortly after we bought it, it stopped reliably starting. We had a problem with our ignition. Apparently, we needed the services of – of all professions – a locksmith.
I took our home to a locksmith, who said the problem would be simple enough to fix. The locksmith reckoned he could have everything sorted in a couple of hours. That seemed reasonable. So I left it with him and went to steal some electricity from a coffee shop.
Three hours later, after no news, I headed back to the locksmith's. The locksmith was sitting behind a computer with what looked like a crucial part of my Honda next to him.
I’m far from an expert in these matters. But my house didn’t look fixed.
“Hi mate,” I said. “How did you get on with my Honda Odyssey.”
“Yep, I can see what the problem is,” the man said. “But I can’t fix it.”
The guy told me someone could fix it the very next day. I was wary, but had little choice but to believe him. I told him I’d bring it back the next day and asked for the keys.
“You can’t drive it without this though,” he said, gesturing to the part of my car that was currently resting on his office desk.
“No, obviously,” I said. “But I need to get on. So can you please put that bit back in?”
He looked at me as if I was mad.
“I can’t put it back in now!” he said.
“Right, well, this is now a serious problem,” I said. “That is my home.”
“You live in that car?”
“That car is a van.”
“I can’t repair it mate.”
“Then where can I live?”
And that, my friends, is how I ended up living in a 1998 Toyota Avensis emblazoned with advertisements for a security company called, ironically, Begg.
You don’t see this on Instagram.
But it’s actual #vanlife.
When we were forced to live in a van, we bought a 15 year old Honda Odyssey that’s had 8 previous owners. Based on little more than the exterior paintwork, we thought it’d serve us well. Sadly, shortly after we bought it, it stopped reliably starting. We had a problem with our ignition. Apparently, we needed the services of – of all professions – a locksmith.
I took our home to a locksmith, who said the problem would be simple enough to fix. The locksmith reckoned he could have everything sorted in a couple of hours. That seemed reasonable. So I left it with him and went to steal some electricity from a coffee shop.
Three hours later, after no news, I headed back to the locksmith's. The locksmith was sitting behind a computer with what looked like a crucial part of my Honda next to him.
I’m far from an expert in these matters. But my house didn’t look fixed.
“Hi mate,” I said. “How did you get on with my Honda Odyssey.”
“Yep, I can see what the problem is,” the man said. “But I can’t fix it.”
The guy told me someone could fix it the very next day. I was wary, but had little choice but to believe him. I told him I’d bring it back the next day and asked for the keys.
“You can’t drive it without this though,” he said, gesturing to the part of my car that was currently resting on his office desk.
“No, obviously,” I said. “But I need to get on. So can you please put that bit back in?”
He looked at me as if I was mad.
“I can’t put it back in now!” he said.
“Right, well, this is now a serious problem,” I said. “That is my home.”
“You live in that car?”
“That car is a van.”
“I can’t repair it mate.”
“Then where can I live?”
And that, my friends, is how I ended up living in a 1998 Toyota Avensis emblazoned with advertisements for a security company called, ironically, Begg.
You don’t see this on Instagram.
But it’s actual #vanlife.
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