It wasn’t supposed to be permanent, and it isn’t in a way.

For the twenty second time, Peter announces the day by banging his fist on the back doors. I open them and he hands me my morning cuppa.

“Maureen is frying the bacon, if you want a bacon roll,” he says with the feeble half smile people use for people whose misses have booted them out of the house and are now living in their van.

Bacon means it’s Friday.

It’s funny how time passss when you’re living in a vehicle.

“Cheers mate, I’ll be in in a minute,” I reply, graciously accepting the piping hot Homer Simpson mug.

I leave one door open as I greet the day. It’s summer at least, when Claire had the urge to end our eighteen year marriage and force me to find my own roof. My workmate Peter had offered his son’s bedroom while he was backpacking, but then he came back sooner than expected and I was once again booted out of another bedroom.

At least the van doesn’t have an outdated football duvet cover and those kiddie stars on the ceiling.

It also doesn’t smell like teenage boy.

It smells of cement and dust, which at least I can find some comfort in.

The chainsaw and buckets I’m bunking with are still more loving than Claire had been recently.

At least they don’t kick me off in the middle of the night.

While I’m sipping my coffee, which is a little too strong, a young man presents himself at my front door.

I say young man, he’s probably in his mid thirties.

“Kevin Donaldson?” he asks, with a smug little grin.

I nod. “Aye.”

He passes me a big thick envelope and my heart sinks.

“Sorry, it’s hard to do this when you don’t have a letter box,” he offers and then strides off, before slinking into a BMW parked on double yellow lines up the road

I look at the divorce papers in my hand, and my stomach gurgles for bacon.