If I keep looking back, I'll never move forward

Times a changing. As ever a million and one things have happened since my last post.

I would like to talk to a boyfriend I had. I broke up with him yesterday. He was emotionally abusing me. I was abused as a child, and there was an eerie comfort to his behaviour, but I had to let him go. I've tried to do this numerous times. "He's dead to me!" I'd casually proclaim. And anywhere from two days to four months later he'd worm his way in. At first I thought it was just me being 'weak', but having spoken to my friend Ash, she assured me it was him. She had been stuck in a similar relationship with an equally manipulative man and it took her 6 years to get out. Great, something to look forward to. /s

It was a strange 18 months. At first he was nice, but then so was I. We are all on our best behaviour in the beginning. We weren't dating back then; in fact, we were only 'boyfriend and girlfriend' for the last two weeks. I referred to him as my part-time-boyfriend, a nicer term than fuck-buddy and less annoying than 'friends with benefits'. As time progressed he started to change, I noticed, and I changed. I was more defensive, I'd find myself responding like with like. Abuse or be abused, is a motto in my confused mind. I stepped back, unhappy with my behaviour, and so I was being abused.

And strangely enough, even though I knew, I couldn't leave. I was aware of his little moves, because I've done it before too. I've played that game many a time; however, at the time I was unaware. I knew I wasn't being nice to my partners, but only now do I realise where that was coming from. He has similar attachment problems as I do, and I felt a kinship. I knew where he was coming from, I understand why he behaves like that. And that's just me making myself feel guilty, without adding his.

He would gaslight me and emotionally manipulate me into having sex with him. He would disrespect my house, he was always late, he was never there when I needed him, but always there when he wanted me. He'd make me feel guilty about going on a road trip, but was 'too busy' to see me if I stayed. He'd want to know who was in his van, and sitting in his chair. On the extremely rare occasions he bought me something [one can of cider] he'd make a big deal out of it, yet he would often drink my drink. He'd complain that I wasn't drinking fast enough, and that I was spoiling his mood, because I wasn't being 'fun'. He would loudly reminisce about the 'good old times' when I would get drunk and lose my inhibitions. After I'd driven to his house, he would moan that I'm making him walk 10 minutes to a suitable stopping place, a stopping place I'd chosen as he'd make a big scene about me parking outside his mother's house. Of course, he wasn't 'moaning', he was merely commenting on where I had parked, and he would apologise that I've taken it the wrong way, and then he'd ask if I had a hard day at work.

He did obviously have some good points, some damn right charming ones too. I shan't get into them here. I don't want to read this later and start to miss him.

I finally realised during counselling last week, that I felt trapped. And that was thoroughly unacceptable. Last night I sent him a final message. I was unsure whether it was 'acceptable' to end a relationship via text, but was reassured by Ash, that under no circumstances should I talk to him, as he will find a way in. She'd once gone to break up with her one, and ended up having sex with him. That's happened to me before too.

I've done what I can, I've sent a message, blocked him on all platforms and deleted his numbers. Now I just need to wait for him to start calling from every other phone he can get his hands on.

So much has happened, I hardly know where to begin, and as usual what I have written before.

I am still stuck at my parents, in a seemingly unending charade of joy. How I wish I were not here. The subtle comments, the looks and the sighs. To be free again, to smell the rain, and to hear the birds. To feel as though there is no reason to get up, and to snuggle back into bed, comfortable that my existence is justified.

But no. I awake, surrounded by windows and walls, on a camp bed, haphazardly located in a room previously dedicated to ironing. The furniture, full of sheets and towels, and the few possessions I have here, stuffed under the 'bed'.

Headphones on, I listen to the newest song to hold my attention, disappearing between the melody into a place of tranquillity; blissfully unaware of the noise around me. And yet, this is not enough. I can feel the energy, the tension, the misery. It seeps from this house and permeates my being. I feel like I'm drowning. Lost behind the smile and the child of old.

I'm starting to feel overwhelmed. The feeling of homelessness, and being back in London, specifically being back at the parents. The atmosphere here chips away at my soul.

I'm trying to find a van and dad keeps getting involved. I can't afford much, heh, I'm surprised I can afford anything. Initially I wanted to borrow £500 so I could get a better van. I want a Vauxhall Combo. He offered to lend more and more money, and we're now at £2000. It took me until today to realise that I don't want to lend the money from him. Not only that I'd have to work more to pay him back, but also because it will be lorded over me, like some kind of magical offering.

Urgh. The other day I went to see a Combo. Had a feeling five minutes in that this wasn't 'the one'. Mother said keep looking anyway, seemed like the perfect choice. Right engine size, clean outside, low miles, good price. On the test drive, I noticed that the clutch/gears didn't feel right. Mentioned it a couple of times to seller. When we got back, I asked to see the paperwork. Well that's handy, I thought. The clutch was changed on on the second to last service. It even had service history you see. Well ladies and gentleman, this clutch was not changed. Being the observant human that I am, I noticed our dear friend had taken it upon himself to write in the service book. “Clutch and Breaks changed”. Yes, the 'breaks' were changed too.

He was unimpressed that I noticed the ink was wet, and further unimpressed by my wonderfully condescending tone. “That wasn't very nice now was it?"

Cue today, I'm sat in the ironing room, which is the only place I could secure some semblance of privacy. I'm going to buy the cheaper van, one that will last me a few months, until I've decided what I want to do in the middle-term. It's hard planning that middle game. I know in the end I want to own some land, and thanks to Wife, I'll be adding a yurt to the shopping list. In the short term, I want a van. So how do I get from ironing room to land?

To The North

Northwardly, I continued driving. I visited John O'Groats, some 690 miles from London. I had done well. From the village famous for being the furthest point from Lands End, I'd have expected more. There was a sign. I left.

I then drove to Dunnet Head, the northernmost point on the UK mainland. It's a small peninsula in the northeast of Scotland. It looks like a weird-sticky-out blob on the map. There was a lighthouse to greet you, and Hoy. Stretched before me, green atop blue, the island captivated me. This was my first experience of seeing islands that close. They were the Orkney Islands. It was breathtaking, and then as you turn your head, the view sweeps across the mainland. It's easy tell why this was a strategic military location; you can see every-fucking-thing from here.

Sign in shop window. "Open 8 Days A Week!" I knew Scotland was different, but damn, some crazy shit happens north of the wall.

On my way off 'The Head', there was a not-very-old-old-man on a mobility scooter. Nothing unusual here, except that he was driving it in the middle of the road. Literally (never used lightly), on the central white line. I slowed down to pass him, neither beeped nor stared. Not that that concerned him as he was now shouting at me to "fuck off", and whilst repeatedly sticking his fingers up at me, nearly crashed into oncoming traffic. Good times.

The heather was in full bloom and I was treated to rolling purple hills, swaying in the distance. Combine that with the islands and insta-karma, I'd say that was a rather splendid day.

Apples; an introduction to their awesomeness

As the title suggests, I love apples, however, not all apples were created equally.
The apples we eat today are man-made cultivars; clones of their parents, churned out on machine-like trees. They are chosen for the shade and distribution of colour, their size and shape, yet not taste. When taste is not required when selecting apples, it does not bode well for the eater. Occasionally to make life better, a 'sport' appears. This is essentially a mutation, where a random new apple grows on an individual branch. An abomination no doubt, to our Jesus friends. This is how some of the new 'breeds' of apple appear, if, that this, they can grow it again successfully. Most apples are 'created' by combining existing cultivators together. Take the newly popular 'Pink Lady', or Cripps Pink as it is officially known. This wonderful example of an apple is a hybrid between 'Lady Williams' and 'Golden Delicious'. I dislike Golden 'Delicious', almost as much as I hate Gala. This suggests to me, that the 'Lady Williams' must be a fine apple indeed. Can I find one? No. It's on my to-do list.

Anyone who enjoys apples as much as I, may have noticed the recent deterioration of the 'Braeburn' and 'Granny Smith' varieties. Both previously delightful apples, now tarnished with the 'Delicious' brush. Having been so preoccupied with appearances, someone forgot to taste them. Now I find the Smiths are floury and the Braeburns bitter.

There is hope for the apple. There are now over 7,500 cultivars, some of which still taste good. The Galas, Smiths and the 'Delicious' duo are making way for the new, the aforementioned Pink Lady, the Jazz apple and the Honeycrunch. Fresh and fruity, these apples are a delight to behold.

And now follows some random facts about apples...

1) Apples were one of the earliest fruit trees to be domesticated, over 2,000 years ago, and is now know as 'Malus Domestica'.
2) Red 'Delicious' has an exceptionally long shelf life, and is often bought for decoration (which is probably why it tastes shit, although not a fact)
3) Most apple trees are grafted onto root stock, designated with M numbers e.g. M25. Grafting onto another trees roots, will determine the final shape and size of the mature apple tree.
4) The Granny Smith cutivator, was supposedly created by an old woman who would throw her food scraps out of the window. Two apple seeds combined in a chance seedling and created the tree, which was named after her. It is thought to be a mix of the Malus Domestica and the common crab apple, M. Sylvestris.
5)Not all apples are round! Common shape names include: oblate, oblique, oblong and ovate. 
6) Apple Day in the UK is celebrated yearly, on October 21st.
7) Stored correctly, apples can last for months; not that the supermarkets want us to know that.
9) Apples belong to the rose family and his plant family includes pears, plums, almonds and strawberries.
8) I'm eating an apple now.

Go on, eat an apple, you know you want to ;)

AIA - All-inclusive Anonymous 01/04/16

Ring ring, went the telephone, in the week before Christmas.

"Hey, you're an atheist right? You don't celebrate Christmas do you?" Not what I'd expected to hear, but hey I went with it.
"Ummm, I like presents"
"Can you do me a favour?" asks the friend on the phone.

Now this is a dangerous request from said friend, as she has spawned four times, and perhaps wants a babysitter. Casually, I ask "what do you want?"

"I need you to come with me, my mum had an operation, her foot hurts, I'll lose the tickets, it's free, I need another adult to check in with me..."
"Tickets? Tickets for what?
"Fuerteventura"
"Fuertevenwhat?"
"TURA, on Boxing day"
"What's on Boxing Day?"
"The flight" she said somewhat exasperated.

"Whoah, wait, hold up. Are you suggesting, that this 'big favour' you wanted to ask, is for me to go on a free holiday, on a fucking aeroplane?"
"Yes"
"Well that's just fucking awesome. I'll be there"
"You will?" she sounded both unsure and grateful.
"Why do you sound so surprised" I replied. "When have you known me to turn down free shit.....wait a minute, is there a catch? Are you abandoning me with the horde?"
"No, no, no you can go off if you want, get a hire car, whatever."
I thought this conversation couldn't get any better....and then she casually told me it was 'all-inclusive'.
I got excited about free food. And then, it dawned on me....I'd get free vodka too.

"Friend, I love you so much"

The Ballet of Thor: featuring the Scotish weather.

I left the licking man shortly after, and as I was driving down the road, it started to rain. And rain it did. I was driving 40mph on a 60mph road as I approached a wide-stress-free bend. And then suddenly I was was facing the other direction, casually chilling on the verge, observing the now oncoming traffic as it passed. I say passed, as no one bothered to stop. Why would they? I'd only spun a 180, and ended up on the grass in the middle of a Thor shower. Somehow I lost the back wheels, and went spinning towards the verge, bumped neatly over the kerb and skidded across some previously-attractive gravel. Understandably so, I was shaking, my hands unsteady as I tried to roll a cigarette. After taking two pulls, it occurred to me that the next person to skid off this road, will likely end up right where I had 'parked'. So off I went at 10mph (literally) and found a nearby castle. 

It wasn't an English Heritage castle, so there was a sign outside "warning" you'd have to pay £4.50 to park. I drove up to the gate human, told her the story and she let me in. She also reassured me that there must have been something on the road, oil she surmised. Not that it helped. (I was scared of bends for weeks!)

After another shaky attempt at rolling, I headed further north, much to the protests of my family, who after my stint as a stunt double, insisted I return to London. 

It was, unsurprisingly, still raining. Triple wiper rain. Going so fast they were holding on to the windscreen for dear life, and still I could barely see. Yet all the while, I was being overtaken by lunatics. I'm driving 25-30mph on a national speed limit road and can see fuck all past the wall of water. I'd not been happier to see a HGV in all my life. Finally, I thought, something I can see. So much for that. Within five minutes he was half a mile ahead, and in ten minutes I couldn't see him anymore.

Still raining, I pulled into an Asda carpark to re-admire their weird food. The natives were in t-shirts. Out of 30-ish people, only one was wearing a waterproof jacket, and even he never bothered to put his hood up.

After distracting myself in Asda, the storm had passed, and I continued. I came across a sign for 'Foyers Falls' and took a detour. Still, after Whitby, I had not learnt, that when one walks down, one must walk up. The falls were stunning. Would I visit them again? No.

I saw hairy cows with horns. I have nothing further to say about this.

In Scotland, there is such a thing as a 'bothie'. We would describe it as an abandoned building in the absolute-there-is-no-fucking-road-middle-of-nowhere. They have been left there for walkers to sleep in, some, apparently, even have chairs.

Passed a 'petrol station'. I'm sure that in the back, a donkey was pumping the fuel. 143.9p per litre. I'd been warned about this in Hull, but daaaaaaaamn. The M25 service stations are cheaper.

Diary 08/04/15

I sit at this yard, passing time away. Nothing achieved, yet the time has moved on. I feel that I need to achieve something great, yet having a simple life is what I seek. Someone said I'm amazing; that there is something different about me. And indeed there is. Not many people live in a van. Not many women live in a van. And not many do it alone. And still this is how I find myself, alone with nowhere to go. Which is a lie, because I have everywhere to go. I suppose it all depends on wether I want to go or not, or sit here discontent.

So here I am...

Back in London, sat at my mother's desk. Writing this post purely so I can stop feeling guilty about not writing it.

So much has happened since I've last written here. I've been living in the van now for 15 months. I've been half way around the country, and we even went to Europe. We caught on fire. We are officially thieves. We're vegan now, we being Steve and I, Steve being the stove. I have a stove. I'm more spiritual. Less aggressive. Still sad. Adventuring wherever the day takes me. Have van; will travel. Personal motto. I've been lied to and deceived. Replaced and forgotten. Revered and worshiped. Those were good times. I've played games a plenty. Eaten glorious food and sat around many a fire. I've drank more than usual, yet stopped smoking for 8 months. I'm learning the ocarina now, and I walk around in robes. Less washing. Result. Bored of part-time boyfriends, looking for someone to tolerate on a semi-permanent basis. Currently addicted to tomatoes. Still want a castle, a tree house and to live in the mountains. Or my own mountain. My ears don't like mountains. I drove through the Pyrenees. Amazing, looked like a packet of Toblerone. I can't eat them anymore. They've got sugar and cow juice in it. Still scared of cows, and I've thoroughly established I'm scared of bats too. Met a taxidermist. That was weird. Seeing a tiny dead bad did not help. Through away a metric fuckton of possessions and feeling good for it. Still making natural skin cream. Still insane, not rich enough to be eccentric. Song of the week: Satie - Gnossienne 3.

And now back to the original adventure.

I arrive at what was a quaint stone cottage surrounded by my favourite tree; the Scottish Pine. After getting out of the car to manually open the gate, I drive up to the house. Before me stands a tall, slim, dishevelled old man. He's wearing a lumber jack shirt, some form of brown trousers and his hair was that of a mad scientist.

He introduced himself as Tom, which was a relief, as I convinced myself I was lost. He invites me in, and I receive the downstairs-only version of the tour. Everything was old. Not old-fashioned old, it-needs-replacing-old. Thankfully, there was no TV. There was, however, a museum-worthy desktop PC in the corner; that amazingly, connected to the internet. This is one occasion where the adage 'they don't make em' like they used to', is not a good thing. 

It was rather late by the time I arrived, so thoughtfully he'd prepared dinner. Well, I for one would not call that dinner. The offering was over-boiled potatoes (which disintegrated on contact), a pile of leaves and some cheese. During 'dinner' he informed me that he grew the potatoes and leaves himself, I assume for me to comment that they were lovely and fresh. All I was hoping for was a spoon, to eat my now mash potato. By now I was tired, and not really paying attention to him, until something terrible happened. He licked his fingers. And then I noticed how unbelievably dirty his nails were. They were black, confirming he had literally dug up the potatoes and leaves earlier that evening. Whilst I was coping with that information, he licked his fingers again. And then I was done eating. After a brief recovery period he bought out a teapot with stuff floating in it and a pair of chopsticks. Suspiciously I drank it, after he explained it was Twinnings loose tea. I then excused myself from the table and disappeared to the car to devour my Terry's Chocolate Orange.  

After sleeping in a bed again, I awoke refreshed. So much so, I'd forgotten to mentally prepare myself for breakfast. I tried to not die inside when he presented me with a bowl of muesli, some ultra-fresh raspberries and a jug of water. There was no milk, and when I requested some, he complained, so I picked up the jug of water. It's all about new experiences, I remind myself, and I sat up ready to face the day.

The task of said day was to gather some trees from his woodland. He has been cutting down non-native trees so that the delightful Scottish Pine can thrive. I hope you noticed the sarcasm. Realising he'd left his winch-a-ma-bob at a neighbouring property, I opted to wait in the woodland. Mistake number one. There I was, standing there, minding my own business, when by perchance I glanced down towards my feet. They were covered in huge fucking ants. So fucking huge, that that evening I had to Google them to make sure they were real. There were literally hundreds of them on me, some as high as my knee. Cue deranged and slightly hysterical ant removal techniques. Lesson one: keep moving. Failing that, stand on a chair. And yes, oddly enough there was a chair in the middle of nowhere. 

When he finally returned, and after he'd mocked me for my fear of ants, we began winching trees he'd cut down earlier. On this day I learnt how to not winch a tree, how not to tie up a tree and where to not stand when someone is winching a tree. Winching and I did not get along. Trees can jump surprisingly far when being forced to move. I was unprepared. This appears to be a common theme.  

On the way back he spotted some edible berries. I ate loads of the little bugger. I was excited to finally have some sugar after this mornings 'breakfast'. Even if it was from random floor-based berries. We returned to the house. After another teapot vs chopsticks experience, he asked me to hoover. Remember this is WOOFING - Worldwide Opportunities for Organic Farming, or something like that. You work in exchange for accommodation and 'food' apparently. Happy(ish) to oblige, I went in search of the hoover. I don't know why I was optimistic about this. It was the slowest, oldest most derelict hoover you'd ever seen. If I trapped a thousand ants in a carrier bag, they'd make a better hoover. There was neither a brush head or extension hose. It was a great experience. 

Sadly, yet not surprisingly, dinner was a repeat of yesterday, except for the welcomed addition of bread. The licking started sooner tonight, as he had butter on his fingers early on. This man licks everything. Not only his fingers, but also the cutlery and his flipping plate. Yes, a grown-ass man licked his plate at the table. Just because you live in bush, doesn't mean you can eat like monkey. KMT. Thankfully, I did the washing up and bleached the life out of that shit. Incidentally, there wasn't hot water, so one had to wait for the stove to boil. That's right, the stove. Plug-in kettles apparently weren't invented the last time he went Argos. There was also no oven or washing machine. Which perhaps answers the question, as to why he was wearing the same clothes the entire time I was there. He did, however, have an awesome sink. I don't normally comment on sinks, but there wasn't exactly much else to look at. 

Turns out my mad scientist notion was correct, as he was a chemistry teacher many (many) moons ago. I had previously found some rocks so went off to retrieve them from the boot. It was at this time I realised I'd run out of sweets and chocolate. 

Looking somewhat miserable on my return, he commented that I was addicted to sugar. Pfffft, you can't be addicted to sugar, I retorted. Somewhat flippantly (as by now I was annoyed), he suggested I search online. Turns out he was right. Did you know you can be addicted to sugar? I certainly didn't.

But let us return to the rocks. Remember, the ones I found on a beach somewhere. You'll never guess what he did. Yep, he licked them. And I am not joking.

My first night alone in the van...

We interrupt our lack-of-regular blog posts to bring you this update of my first night alone in the van.

Left my sister's house to spend the night alone. Time to spread my wings a bit an be independent from the lure of central heating.

After finding a country lane 2 miles away, I settled into a quiet spot opposite a 'village green'. Emphasis on that as I'm still within the M25. 

At 21:45 I decided to get into bed and I fall asleep rather quickly. At 22:05 I heard a car pulling up. After so many days outside my parents, I thought it was my mother again, but very quickly remembered where I was and woke up. 

Still laying in my bed, clutching my kosh, I heard one of them walking past the van, mumbling something about 'there's a big van here', and then he tried to open the doors. By this point I was well and truly shitting myself. Once he'd moved a bit, I crept up to the windscreen and attempted to see what was going on. Their car was facing me and I was blinded by their headlights. They stayed there for another few minutes, and then left. 
Still scared and rather annoyed I now had to pack away and prepare for driving back to my sister's house. 

And that is my first experience of life living in a van.

Life in a Converted Transit Van - Part 1

The first rule of living in a van. Do not step in a bag of your own shit. 

I bought a Suncamp Lulu toilet, I was rather impressed by it. It works, is sturdy and most importantly, fits under my chair. A tip I learn elsewhere - put cat littler in the bottom. Helps to soak up any accidents. I put a bag into the toilet, then some news paper. Then I do my business and put it in the bin. We are no longer leaving it outside for 5 minutes whilst we find shoes. We will now walk in the cold to ensure no more accidental stepping. I was unprepared for the amount of poo that leaves me on a regular basis. I wish I was a rabbit.

What does this have to do with life on the van. Everything, if like you you won't have a flushable toilet. Or a light switch. Or a tap. Thankfully, I have a kettle. 

I moved into the van on the 1st March. And yes, I know I haven't even written about the conversion. I've decided this is a backwards blog, and you'll just have to keep up.

Five things I can't live without on my van:
Candles [ambiance, heat and light all for 4 pence an hour]
Handwash/antibacterial gel [everything is so dirty]
Dressing Gown [I'm convinced it just makes me feel warmer looking at it]
Slippers [can't have a house without slippers]
Kettle [no explanation required]

Obviously I could say some sensible things like a woodburning stove, hot water, 230v sockets and such other expensive things, but alas, I don't have them. 

I will be buying a stove from the Fireweaver. He comes highly recommended from hippy folk and hand makes the stoves and he fits them. If he would just move his entire life closer to London, I'd appreciate it. I'm looking forward to getting one in the winter - it'll be lovely and warm, free hot water and free fuel as long as I can be bothered to chop it.

How on earth, I, a Londoner has decided to live in a van, I'll never know. But I do, most people think I'm mad, but such is life. 

I've managed 12 nights, which is 11 more than anyone thought I'd last!

Homemade washing powder for lazy people

I developed a reaction to washing powder so needed to make my own. I'm lazy and I did it. You can do it. This much lasted me for a month [thank god, because I'd never make it every week].

Recipe first, descriptive words later.

Ingredients:
500g Borax [not substitute] [£2.30]
400g Soda Crystals [40p]
100g Bicarbonate of Soda [30p]
100g Soap Flakes [25p]
40 drops of essential oils - I use 20 orange, 20 lemon [£?]

Directions:
Measure all of the ingredients.
Put into a bowl.
Mix it.
Put into a container

Total cost: £3.25 [15p a wash]

Use 50g per wash. Weight a portion out, then make a mark on a plastic cup. I know, it doesn't seem 'enough', but it works - even on a quick wash. But no, it will not clean things that are stained to shit. You'll need to break out the Vanish, until I figure it out.

It's really not difficult. I got the funnels at the 99p store. Borax and essential oils from eBay. Bicarb, soda crystals and soap flakes from Wilkinsons, although they don't seem to sell the flakes any more. You can always grater a bar of plain soap, but that is pushing it a bit. I've done it before; more annoying that cheese, but better than carrots.

When using the funnel, enlist the help of a wooden spoon for persuasion.

For my container, I used an innocent juice bottle and it holds everything nicely, easy to carry, open and it came with free juice.

And that is how I saved my skin, prevented an operation, saved money and felt domesticated - all for £3.25.

The update on life since buying a van.

I've been busy.

Sawing, drilling, cutting, sticking, stuffing.
I've almost finished insulating 3/4 of the van. I can't believe it is taking so long.

Just cleaning him was a mission into itself. Now I'm struggling to put the ply on the walls. Day after day of working. It's been cold and I've been miserable. And today my mum said she will bless the van. And now I have to be seen as ungrateful if I don't let her pray on it. If she wants to go outside and pray, that's her business, but why do I have to stand there and listen to it.

Today I built a box to cover the wheel arch. I realise that according to you, I've only just bought a van, so what does a wheel arch have to do with anything. A lot. And it is a nightmare. The box worked, but then the ply that we cut to fit said boxes, doesn't fit when the ply is pulled in. So now I'm going to have to baton it. I've never sawn so much wood in my life. Sawing is hard, my arm hurts, actually my hand hurts. I'm very proud of my batons, even I couldn't pull them off the walls - and I tried. One things for sure, when I get around to building the cupboards, they will be well supported.

I sold my favourite cup and saucer set yesterday - Denby Lucerne - and frankly I'm rather sad about this. I hope that the new owner loves it as much as I do. I wanted to send an eBay message, but though that might be a bit weird. Hey, those cups you just bought, be nice to them.

I've been off all week working on the van. I'm going to Bath/Bristol over the weekend to visit a friend, who is very excited about seeing the van; so I though it best that there's more to show that a white box. Let's hope he likes it. See you soon MM!

What I want, is not what I need.

We are trained to want. To need. And yet what we desire the most, is in fact not what we need. Why do we need the latest gadget, to fill our homes with these treasures? Symbols of achievement that leave us wanting more. Full of empty promises, lies of success. A never ceasing and unending pursuit of hollow goals.

Yet I do not know, what are the things I need. Experiences of life, to find meaning beyond consumption. There is something more I seek. To define ones self by more than the career. To be a human and to exist is no longer an acceptable goal. As if somehow, not aspiring to hollow dreams, is a sign of weakness. To not play by the rules, to not dislike thy self because of this. To search beyond the false blanket of contentment. To not realise too late, that all life has become, is the pursuit of possessions.

In light of this I must continue my goal; to explore this life and to know myself. 

The tale of the day I bought a van.

It's here. My van. My new home, eventually. It's a Ford Transit. The long wheel base, with the high roof. In white-van-man white. And a few special features, but we will discuss that later.

Funny, I'd been calling it a 'he' and as I sit here to write, I instinctively want to call it a 'she'. Any way, I bought it last week, but I've not told my family about it yet. I don't particularly want to hear their complaints. Besides, my parents aren't talking to me.

On the day I bought the van, I had woken up and decided that was the day I was going to buy a van. I'd been procrastinating, as ever. That day I went to see 6 vans. They have been nicknamed thus; blue van, crash van, screwdriver van, floating lock van, fake service van and special feature van.

I woke up early to view the blue van, it was about 45 minutes from where I was and I needed to be there at 10am. It was a light-blue, ex water-board van. Lovely colour, looked outwardly decent. Inside however was rather odd, as there were additional panels fitted to the dash for flashy lights and a 10,000 CD multi-changer [slight exaggeration] There were giant speakers in the back, more weird wires and strange built in structures, covered in a horrendous carpet. Next.

I met crash van that afternoon in Walthamstow. I went through the back of a 'Caribbean Restaurant'. The van was there. Outwardly decent. However it was trapped in, with cars blocking on all sides. He called a man, he moved his car. Whilst he was trying to get the van out, I could finally see it properly. The rear doors did not shut properly, neither did the side door. Also noticed black smoke. Then whilst struggling to get it out, he hits a parked car. The situation was more awkward that you can imagine. So I'm standing there, whilst they're arguing about the car. Giant black van man pretending he didn't do it, and VW Golf owning Asian-rude-boy getting 'upset'. I don't want a test drive any more, not only due to the new dent. After receiving a 'look' from giant black van man, I went on the test drive [down two roads as he had no insurance or tax] said no thanks and got the hell out of there.

Screwdriver van was in Chingford. We had to call the dealer, as he was next door in the pub. Good start. This was the most expensive van on the list, by £1000. He gave us the key and said, it's over there, take it for a drive if you want. After pausing in shock we went over there. That is the difference between Chingford and Bethnal Green. It was scratched to shit. Both of the chairs looked like they had been attacked by a starving rabbit. The central locking didn't work. I pressed every button combination possible, but for the love of toast, the drivers door just would not open. The side door had been jimmied. Twice. Went to open the bonnet, which you need the key for. There was no keyhole. So we went back across the road, told him about the central locking and the bonnet. He denied any issues with the locking, and in regards to the bonnet, his mate turned round and stated 'oh yeah, that's the one that needs a screwdriver'.

Floating lock van, was somewhere in Dagenham. The man wasn't in so we went to find the van anyway. He lied on the advert about the size of the van, as if seeing a smaller on would convince me to change my mind. As you may know, some vans have big sticking out locks on them. Not a problem, extra security. Except that this lock was at the top. As in two inches from the roof. Shortest viewing ever.

Fake service van, also in Dagenham. We arrive and the van isn't there. It is 'parked at my uncles'. So we wait. Ten minutes later the van arrives. He tells me all about it, what he's done blah blah blah. Have a test drive, seems good, brakes need checking and stalled three times, going around the block. A new record. Looked at the paperwork. Even though I know I didn't want it, I like to practise what to look for. And it soon became apparent to me that things didn't match up. Firstly for seven years, the same person, with the same pen serviced the van. Then I noticed, he had only owned the van for six months, but it was his 'uncle' that had serviced the van. Who apparently owned it before him. Which is funny, because Asian people aren't usually called Michael White, who incidentally lived in Norfolk, two years ago. He seemed genuinely shocked that things didn't match up. That's what happens when you listen to uncle.

And that leaves us with special feature van, who previously lived in Barking. The man who owned it ran a wrestling company, and had to take out the passengers seat to fit the ring in. Not an issue as I wanted to get a single chair anyway. The special feature is on the passenger side wheel arch. Someone, who clearly never learnt how to do anything properly, 'repaired' it using filler, and apparently, a spoon. By this time it was dark, and it appeared that that panel could be removed [it can't]. All of the doors locked, closed cleanly, and the rear and side are fitted with security slam-locks. I went for a test drive and it sounded good. I looked around as best I could using a torch, and saw what I believed to be an oil leak. I called someone I knew, that broke up cars, and picked him up so he could have a look. He said it was alright. I bought the van. For £200 less than asking price. I was happy with my bartering skills. I have since spent that £200 correcting things that I did not notice on the day. But that is for another time.

I sat in the car, and took out insurance using my tablet, as it was totally uninsured. I asked my 'friend' to drive that car to mine, whilst I drive the van. It was a fifteen minute journey. What could go wrong. A lot it would seem. He broke the clutch. Killed it. Dead. He calls me. "Your car is outside Costcutter". Now I'm 10 minutes from 'home', and I don't know where bloody Costcutter is. So I turn around the giant van, that I've barely got used to driving forward, and try to find the car. It was 5 minutes away. Why not ring me sooner? Thankfully I was swift about getting there, because I found the car ABANDONED half way into the road and UNLOCKED. With all my things in the back, including this very laptop I am using today. I couldn't believe it either, I mean how can someone do that? So after going into an almighty panic, looking through the car to make sure anything hasn't been stolen, I draw my attention to the van, which I had hastily dumped on the side of the road. It needed to move I hadn't found the keys for the car yet, so I had to ask CC man to watch it whist I parked. Thankfully, the ex's boss had made a mistake, he was still home and he came to the scene of the crime. By then I'd found the keys. They were on the inside of the rear tyre. He had time to hide the keys, but not enough time to put the hazard lights on and lock the damn car. I go across the road and beg the bar staff to let me stash the car in their car-park for the night, and after hearing the story, they obliged. The ex arrived, and with the help of a pissed woman steering, we pushed the car up the mini-hill to the parking spot.

Emotional, shattered from my van buying escapades, we move on. Four hundred yards from home I saw blue flashing lights and pulled over to let them pass, only to realised I've been pulled over. Really. As if I needed anything else besides a cup of tea. The van had no insurance according to their system. I had no license on me. They asked if I was the owner. I said yes, for an hour and a half. Any proof, yes new keepers supplement. And the picture on my phone of the insurance website, displaying my policy number and thanking me for choosing their company. The bid me farewell. Sometimes I love my brain for being so sensible.

A new adventure, a spiritual journey. Living in a camper van and not getting a mortgage.

What's the plan?

There never really is a plan. I could describe the basis of the plan, as trying to find meaning. A meaning in this life, that does not evolve around possessions. Being defined as who you are, by what you do. To understand what it is to be human, to experience all that life has to offer. And to find that, I need to look.

I need to be able to move. To explore. To find. To search. To stumble. To somehow reach an awareness, a place in which the world makes sense. A place, not physical, but within myself, where I am comfortable. Where I feel at one with myself, and my desires. Not to be oppressed by what I should be doing.

Many people talk of the "should". I should settle down. I should get a mortgage. I should prescribe to the rules that society dictates to me. Well fuck society. Why should I spend my entire life saving and working towards the end goal, that ultimately leaves me with four walls, a roof and accumulated possessions I own, displayed like trophies of a glorious life. A life which at the end, is often hollow and alone.

I am not a religious person, as you may know. I am not a spiritual person. That is what I tell myself. The logic fights the notion of the spirit; as if somehow they are enemies. Where I got this opinion from, I do not know. But I know [much to the irritation of logic], that is needs to change. I must embrace the connection of the universe, as the [previously thought of as crazy people] do. I often denied it, but I was faced with evidence of this 'energy', I've heard of. I noticed it when I hugged people. Sometimes I'd feel this warm, and frankly irritating feeling. But something was happening, and I wasn't hungry. OK, so that's not the entire basis as to why I want to 'connect with nature', but it would take far to long to type. And besides, most of it is just a feeling. I feel that I'm supposed to be doing something. Something is calling me. It would be a lot easier if it just sent a text.

I've decided I'm going to buy a camper van. I have a strong desire to move. I've never liked to be in once place. I've realised I'm a nomad. For years I believed I was wrong. That I wasn't supposed to move so many times. I'm 30 years old and I've moved more than 20 times, 30 plus if you include 'popping back' to the family home. I've had over 20 jobs, attempted college over 10 times. Nothing ever seemed interesting enough. Or important enough. I'd grow tired of the same routine. Walking down the same road, doing the same tasks at work. Jack of all trades, master of none. Somehow perceived as an insult. For me, the highest compliment. I'd rather be known for nothing and know a multitude of things; than to know one thing so well, there was time for little else. I respect the human who knows everything there is to know about cars; but what else do you know? To have a one all encompassing interest in life, to me is something to hide behind. Or perhaps the simple enjoyment of things. Who am I to say they are not satisfied with their choice.

I'm apprehensive about getting a van. Setting off on a new adventure. To step fully into the unknown. To place myself in the hands of my choices. To open myself up, and allow myself  to welcome the opportunities that the universe provides. I could always stay in bed and hide under the duvet. A difficult choice.

To the present.

I'm unhappy; trapped in this concrete jungle.

I'm in London. Again. I was taken in once more by the lure of the flashing lights, the petrol station at the end of the road, and a multitude of 24/7 supermarkets.

It's so unnecessary. I want a simpler life. I crave it. Yet I'm wary of leaving it all behind, and the relative comfort of four walls.

The current plan is to take the car and spend two weeks on the road, and two weeks in London. Not ideal, but business dictates. I'd rather jump, not paddle into a situation. I might lose all my possessions, but at least I can swim.

Eventually I want to be nomadic, perpetually moving from place to place. Exploring both my surroundings and myself. I just hope this is what I'm looking for.

Right now I need to save money. Urgh, the feeling of disgust as I think about it. Such a tiresome thing is money. The car needs fixing, and converting into my home! That's going to be a few hundred boof for sure. Oh well, at least I can practise whilst I wait.

I'm changing my diet in preparation, and I'm decluttering. I aim to only leave one suitcase behind. That's not the even the hard part. That would be cooking outside in the rain.

And one day I'll finish the story.

On route to the forest.

Never trust a sat nav. 90% of the time I wasn't going anywhere in particular, so I didn't need it. But when I did, he let me down. Good thing I could see the castle out the dam window.

Drove past some huge hills that looked like a wedding cake. A square one. Some random grass Tower of Hanoi pyramids. In the middle of no where. I have no idea. Someone had too much money.

Got to Edinburgh. Been there before, so nothing overly exciting. Besides it's a city, and cities don't excite me. I love the architecture, but then there is the issue of parking. I had a drive round, might as well. Reminiscent of Romford, but with more red hair. And more hills, seems every other road was a hill.

Bored of Edinburgh, I decided to head further north across the red bridge. As awesome as it looked, it was closed. The next crossing was over an hour away. I felt I was at the Brandywine bridge in the Shire.

I was on a mission to get to my WWOOF host. Can't be bother, ask google. It was only a 'short' drive to his place in the Cairngorms National Park. It was an incredibly beautiful country drive, but I wasn't in the mood for stopping. I drove past over ten castles, they were looming in the distance. Calling me. I even passed Hadrian's Wall without so much as touching a rock.

In England we have the 'national speed limit' sign, but in Scotland there are 70mph signs. Saves confusion, but technically, a caravan can go 70mph in Scotland, but not in England. And these A-roads are deadly.

I've arrived at the national park, it is full of Scottish Pine trees. OK, so I'm in Scotland, but pine trees are so boring. I want to see oak, beech, willow...anything other than this straight, boring pine. For miles.

Time to find Tom, my host for the next few days. Ha, sounds sinister. It wasn't, but I can assure you it was weird.  

The view on the Moors and foreign land.

Thirty cars queue to turn left at a roundabout. I'm having none of it, so I go into the right hand lane, go around the entire roundabout and then take the left hand exit. And in that time, only two other cars managed to turn left. I always find it amazing that people will just sit there like sheep.

Today I drove at 60 mph for thirteen seconds, with no hands. Unnecessarily insane achievement of the day. Time to find something more sensible to do.

But before that happened, I drove past a WV Polo. Nothing unusual about that. Except that this particular Polo had a yellow wing. And a red bonnet. A green roof and a purple door. Not idea what the boot looked like as I was too busy not crashing my car.

I'm now nearly at Scotland. I passed a road earlier through the Moors, that was so beautiful I had to stop atop the hill to soak in the atmosphere. Even today as I close my eyes, I can still see the scene unfold before me. The solitary road continued down the hill, disappearing with a flick to the left. The hills ahead, varying in colour and size dot the horizon. A large, bushy row of trees shoots of to the right, whilst the sun sparkled through the middle, emphasising the purple heather, which swayed gently in the welcomed breeze.

It's moments like this that make me wish I had both a decent camera, and the ability to use it. I decided to have a nap, so I could spend more time here, waking only when the midday sun had turned the car into an oven.

Continuing my quest north, I finally crossed into Scotland.

And the first thing I see is a giant Walmart, dressed up like Asda. Yes, I know they own Asda, but that is besides the point. Now I really feel like I'm in another country. I decided to investigate. The first 'unusual' thing was the African people. Lots and lots of them. Not Barking and Dagenham levels, but noticeable enough, considering the swathes of white land, I had just travelled through. Shame really. The food was different too. Obviously there was a haggis section, shockingly it was almost as big as the 'ham section' in London. The most awesome thing I observed? The sausage shaped like bread. I can't remember what it's called, but they were everywhere, and what could go wrong with sausage shaped like bread? Apart from the fact that I can't eat bread.