About Mr

After my kids flew the nest and life had somehow shrunk to the thrilling dimensions of a bedroom (and not in a good way), I had what you might call a moment of clarity, or possibly a mild breakdown. Either way, I decided it was time to reclaim some bloody space.

I started by sleeping in my car, which sounds romantic until you realise you're essentially a very expensive homeless person with better insurance. Then came Opal, a 1975 camper trailer with the structural integrity of a Tim Tam left in the sun and roughly the same aerodynamic properties as a brick shithouse. She's held together with duct tape, determination, and what the mechanic politely called "a bit of creative engineering."

Managing chronic illness while exploring Australia is like playing travel bingo with cards that keep changing. Some days my body makes promises my enthusiasm can't keep. Other days I feel like a 40 year old again, right up until I don't.

All this means that I need to travel slower, take more rest days than a senior house cat, and plan with the brutal honesty of someone who's learned that optimism and reality don't always meet.

I write about what actually works when your body sets the rules, your budget calls the shots, and your trailer makes suspicious noises that probably aren't supposed to happen. Not the Instagram version. The real one.