Three Weeks Later….

Boring stuff first:  the house.  It’s almost not-ours anymore.  Or so I believe.  There were letters from conveyancing lawyers and some form of very orderly checklist indicating that we’re almost through the process of transferring servitude ownership to the new dwellers of 65 Elizabeth.  To be very honest, I stopped paying attention the day we packed up the last box and made our dash for freedom.  I’m sure it’s all in hand.  And, without an offence to our very competent realtor team and legal peeps, the whole process feels like an unnecessarily-complicated means of separating a) sellers from cash, b) buyers from cash and c) the planet from trees-that-are-now-paper.  Sheesh.  Anyway, I’m assured that we’re almost there and the transfer will be in the next week or two.  Cool.  Whatevs.

We live in a caravan.  Well, most of us.  There are some aspects of this that have been a surprise.  Namely:

1 – Small spaces get dirty, quickly. We had to enforce a no-shoes-in-the-caravan rule almost immediately, because the amount of grit trafficked into our van through the ordinary comings-and-goings of two adults and two youngling quickly became untenable.  The first solution was a large bucket at the door in which to deposit offending footwear.  This worked brilliantly for about half an hour.  Just long enough for Deborah’s Labrador puppy to discover a treasure-trove of chewables.  Once we’d retrieved all our flipflops from various graves in the garden (some beyond resurrection), we amended the solution to bucket-with-lid.  Mostly, this works.  A dustmat at the door helps too, but we still spend a lot of time sweeping.

2 – Rain makes everything difficult, but it’s also so deliciously cosy and romantic to snuggle in a caravan while it’s raining that you don’t care. Our spring rains started two weeks ago, and mud became a consideration that it wouldn’t have been in our big house.  We currently don’t have a covered walkway from our ‘van to the small cottage Lynn, Carly and Matt share, so the seven-metre dash from one door to the other means getting wet.  This is particularly problematic at 2am when you need the ‘loo (see point 3) because you’re pretty wide-awake by the time you make it back to bed.  However, the sheer loveliness of cuddling into warm blankets while the rain pit-pats on the roof and watching leaden skies through misty windows is more-than-adequate compensation for the mud and the damp.  Also, we were pretty thrilled to discover that Big Blue is watertight – not a single drop through ceiling or seals.  Three cheers for Bostik Marine!

3 – The ablutions. We don’t have any in the caravan as yet.  We eschewed the idea of a chemical toilet pretty early on in our refurb/relocation plans, preferring to plug for a composting loo.  I’ve never thought the way we human beings deal with their own waste is particularly intelligent, and Dean has been keen to engineer a (knowing him) technically-genius composting solution ever since I showed him my hundred-video Youtube arsenal of clever RVers and off-gridders who’ve gone before us.  Our urine-separator arrived by post a few weeks ago (much confusion and hilarity at PostNet, while they worked out what it was), and now we just have to build the structure where the chem-loo would normally go.  The idea is that we’ll make all our mistakes with this one, perfect the process and eventually only have composting loos in the homestead.  It’s all in hand.  However, that doesn’t help us right now.  Right now, we have 1 bathroom to share between seven of us.  This means that a) we all have to avoid hogging the throne in the morning and b) the geyser-schedule and shower-time has to be rigidly adhered to.  Last week, in desperate need of a post-hectic-week bubblebath and soak, I unthinkingly filled the tub and was just beginning to relax into lavender-scented bliss when I realised that I’d probably just used all the hot water, with Dean and Mum still to shower.  Whoops. There’s not much we can do about the bath/shower situation for now, but Project Porcelain is well on track.  Watch this space for how-to (and how-not-to, I suspect) videos.

4 – Our wardrobe. Would you believe me if I told you that all of our clothes – and I do mean all – fit into three drawers (Uchenna), a two-shelf 80cm x 40cm cupboard (Ethan) and a 2m x 80cm wardrobe (Dean and I)?  And that it’s enough?  More than, in fact, as there are STILL items of clothing in that space that we hardly ever wear?  Working for ourselves, as we do, Dean and I are both lucky in that we don’t have to adhere to rules such as ‘corporate dress’ during our day-to-day activities.  Except for one day a week when I attend business networking and client meetings, I live in jeans.  I own five pairs, and I love them all.  They’re invariably matched with comfy tees or blouses and one of three hand-knitted (courtesy of Lynn) jerseys.  I have two smartish tops and some black slacks (trousers) for the business day, and a single dress for when I’m feeling fancy and can be persuaded to wear stockings.  Two pairs of jammies, miscellaneous underwear, socks and hats (I never did outgrow my Donovan cap phase), and that’s it.  That’s all of it.  Dean’s side of the wardrobe is even sparser.  He rotates jeans, shorts and a variety of tees with his favourite pullovers.  The kids do the same and we all have more then enough clean clothes.  I know that there’s a suitcase or two that hasn’t been unpacked currently languishing in the storeroom, but I cannot for the life of me remember what’s in them, nor have I missed their contents.  We have enough, and it fits very neatly into the space we have for it.  Job done.  It’s amazing how little we actually need!

5 – Ditto everything else. In paring down our belongings, we’ve also pruned our need of them. We have a lot of stuff (faaaaaaar too much) in storage in Debs’ garage and storeroom, and I can see myself lighting a match to it all pretty soon.  We’ve kept quite a bit from the house in preparation for the next stage of our new life (i.e the bus and container conversion planned for next year), but I honestly don’t think much of it will make it there.  We just don’t NEED anything.  Other than what already fits neatly and comfortably into our caravan-and-cottage combo.  When we moved in, I thought there would be constant trips to the garage or storeroom in search of something essential to civilised life, but there really haven’t been.  Other than our tools (kept accessible in handy chests, made for purpose), there’s been very little we’ve had to search for and absolutely nothing I’d run into a burning building for.  Especially if I set the fire.

Debs is reading this.  Debs, I promise I won’t actually set the garage on fire. Probably.

6 – The reaction of others, now that we actually live in a caravan. I swear no one thought we’d really do it.  And, while the general reception of our madcappery has been positive and encouraging, I’ve been made aware of some less-than-generous comments from the fringes of our lives.   I’m generally immune to slander but a distant relative asked Ethan if he wasn’t ‘afraid his friends would think him poor’.  Hideous sentiments, to be sure, and quite indicative of the values of the person laying that at the door of a seven year old!  Thankfully, Ethan doesn’t care what other people think, much.  I hope he never does.

Other murmurs – and this, I should have anticipated – seem to express sympathy for our obviously-diminished fortunes.  A slight head-tilt of commiseration here and there and a comment on the toughness of times. To be fair, unless privy to the decision-making process and subsequent planning, I can understand why people might assume that our current homeless state is due to a lack of resources.  I try to explain, but my efforts are usually met with more barely-concealed sympathetic (mis)understanding, so I’ve given up.  I can only imagine the confusion when I embark on my overseas trip next week…

I know that times are tough, and I know that many people have had to downscale in a similar manner to what we’ve done out of need rather than choice.  I feel for them. What has made all the difference to us during the last 3 and a half months is the fact that that is NOT our reality.  This is a choice.  A clear, considered, careful choice based on a desire to realign our lifestyle with our values and to put our resources to more meaningful (to us) use.  I’m immeasurably grateful for that.  Every action we’ve taken since deciding to do this has been deliberate, and it’s an incredibly empowering feeling.

So no, Agnes, we’re not broke.  Calm down.

7 – Small spaces = closeness. Physical, yes, but the other kind too.  The warming kind that’s waking up to the kids giggling over something-or-other on their side of the caravan.  Or comfy companionship when all nine of the tribe assemble on the L-shaped couch in the cottage to watch Aladdin.  Or when we all eat together at the dining table because there’s nowhere else to do that, and mealtimes become happy, intimate occasions of communion.  Privacy is something that has to be carefully managed and respected, but I’ve found that we’ve all become better at communicating our need for space or time alone when necessary.  The closeness doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable, and the space we share seems able to expand to include others in a way that the house never did.  We’ve done more socialising and had more friends over in the last three and a half months than we did in the three and half years preceding them, and that is in no way hyperbolic.  Somehow, the reduction of the space we need to live in has exponentially increased the space inside us for other things.  Good things.  Fun things.  Happy times with lovely people.  My lovely people,you know who you are.

Now that I think about it, that was the point.

Uchenna and I are off to London next week in celebration of two things:  a) I turned 40 yesterday and b) London.  We’re in pursuit of all things Harry Potter, and Dean and Ethan get the caravan to themselves.

I hope they remember to sweep.