The campervan has a very simple form, box-shaped and bulky as if a child designed it. It  moves a little like a child designed it, too. I can’t tell if it’s built for driving or living but like most compromises the bit-of-both combination means it’s not really suitable for either one. We ride high with a swaying gait, taking corners carefully (the hire option has a ‘no-roll package’) and listening to our things being knocked about in the cupboards. The movement is like being on a rollercoaster or a boat – down steep hills we all raise our arms (including the driver) and when we get off the swaying never quite goes away. We stand the best chance of a smooth ride when heading in a straight line with plenty of overtaking time, so it’s lucky that the road down south from Perth is a vertical drop.

I’m in the back, strapped loosely to the dining couch, partly to give SM some fun up front and partly to stop me passenger-seat driving. Here on my own I can clutch the sides of my little bench-seat whenever we turn left or right, and keep an eye on unlocked drawers skidding opening and letting loose the kitchen knives at unintentional targets, righting spilled water bottles and checking that the microwave isn’t about to shoot out of its little wooden recess.

Through my mosquito-netted side window, with its little blue curtains pinned back like pigtails, there is a good view of the land bobbing past. The further south we go the greener it gets: firstly a desert plane, dry grassland studded with scorched grey trees sucking up water from deep below ground, greener as we hit Margaret River with its lines of fresh vines, finally a winding B-road that plunges in and out of thick copses, tightly packed rows of trees throwing shadows across the looping way ahead – almost Cornish, we agree.

It gets cooler as we head south too: 38 in Perth, 33 in Bunbury, ‘only’ 25 by the time we get to Hamelin. We rattle along, tarmac unfurling in front like a sticky liquorice strip. Everything in the van has a lock-down option: plates wedged into holders, toothbrushes pegged to the plastic sink, empty suitcases stashed under the bed. We can take it fast or easy as we like it, motor on to make up time, pull into rest stops and knock up a quick lunch in ten minutes then back out again, easy.

At campsites our meals are more thorough, put together in the little galley kitchen that’s sweetly fitted out with smaller versions of cooker, fridge and sink. We dine well: pork chops with fluffy mash, juicy lamb salad, bacon & eggs, tea and coffee from a whistle kettle and perfect tanned toast from a toaster that plugs into the side of the van.

Every three days we have a different ‘home’. At the moment we are parked near a playground on a high-up plot under a low tree, pointing perilously downwards, back-end first. Mr PC assures me we cannot possibly roll back. ‘Trust me,’ he sighs, ‘I’m an engineer.’ You’re a banker-engineer, though, I want to say but keep it to myself as he has That Look. We try parking sideways but then we’re cooking sideways. In the end we put it front end first again, and Mr Longsuffering lets me switch the pillows top to bottom because our bed is the area furthest to the back, and this way at least it’s our feet pointing downhill, rather than our heads. We sleep well, in the end, thanks more likely to several bottles of Perth Pipsqueak than anything directional.

Our patio in Hamelin, a little beach down towards Augusta, is a square of flat sandy scrub, and the beach is at the end of the lane – not just any old strip of water but one of those dazzling arcs from a Caribbean brochure. We take it in turns to go running in the early morning; Mr PC spots a big stingray but I’m too busy concentrating on sand running, a whole new string to my keep-fit bow. The sea is shockingly cold after Southeast Asia’s syrupy depths and this area is currently shark-infested, so we don’t venture too far out. Chubby magpies and pink cockatiels strut under our picnic table waiting for scraps, and every morning we find fine spider-webs lacing the chairs – no extra guests in our beds so far, touch wood. The flies are a problem, sticking to lips, bedding into hairlines, exploring our ears and foraging in eyebrows. I string up tinsel from the van’s exterior to scare them off, a festive double-arc from the awning strut, but I think they like it as they bring all their mates to come and have a look.

Vineyards visited today, and a picnic on a deserted beach. Tonight a gale is blowing in and we’re about to put back the awning on the side of the van as we don’t want to take off in the middle of the night.

Next stop: Busselton

BY THE WAY: Thanks to those who left a comment (ie, ‘voted’) for my entry in a blogging competition. If anyone’s feeling generous please take a minute to interrupt your Christmas plans and visit this link: http://www.expatsblog.com/contests/780/welcome-to-singapore-dont-look-down and leave a comment of ten words or more. The Expat Blog site might want to ‘verify’ you, just say yes. At best, I might win something, at worst the blog will still be promoted a little bit. Or, far more sensible, go on out to the office party and enjoy. Thanks to those who’ve already done this, and thanks to all for your continued reading, a Christmas gift in itself x