A walk to the station #15
There is one house on my walk that always has a very large motor-home parked outside. Well, it seems large, anyway. Either that or the house is small. Either way, the motor-home is large enough to block their downstairs window entirely. I see that they have clamped it too. I guess that is what you do with several thousands pounds-worth of vehicle parked on your driveway, although I suspect a thief couldn’t make the quickest getaway in it.
There is a certain potential romance with the motor-home. It offers the freedom of the open road, of going anywhere and everywhere, staying wherever you want for however long you want.
I think the reality is probably less exciting. Whenever I’ve gone camping I’ve seen the motor-homes, parked in the least attractive section of the site. You never see the occupants. They are inside, watching their TV. You can tell by the roving satellite dishes on their roofs. It appears the life of the motor-homer is to drive for several hours, park on a gravel-lined pre-destined spot and do whatever you would do at home, just in a far more confined space, and with a chemical toilet.
Although I’m sure that isn’t the case for every motor-home owner.
I remember growing up as a kid there was a guy down the road who spent most of his time in a motor-home parked outside his house. He was a big guy and you could always see him through the windows of his vehicle as you passed. I think he fixed minicab radios for a living, and used the motor-home as his workshop. Cabbies would stop by his motor-home at all hours and he would sort out whatever needed sorting.
A few years on, he died. He didn’t die in the motor-home, but in his house. I remember hearing the fire brigade had to help remove the body. I think I saw their engines, I can’t quite remember. It was very sad.