Just woken up after our first night in a proper bed in a hotel in Perth, and still finding it weird not to have that rattling noise and swinging sensation every time someone moves.

Saying goodbye to the van was a bit sad, actually. We didn’t even create a hilarious family name for it, it was just ‘Campervan’. I feel bad with the way that we parted – on the main road outside the hotel with Mr PC standing at the little side door throwing out our enormous suitcases and a couple of stuffed plastic bags, and then driving off to the depot to dump the truck. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye properly, no parting hug or fond farewells, and when SM and I got into our hotel room I had a little weep to myself while he jumped around on his new white fluffy bed. We’ve discovered a magical way of travelling, us three, intimate and exciting, and just not present here in our comfy hotel room. Yeah OK, I got over it pretty quick. But we’ll be back again, Campervan, I know it.

Now I know why adults end up living in static home parks (the nice leafy tranquil ones, I mean, not the mid-US rusted wastelands that you drive into by accident). Living in a parked mobile home is an alternative to being rooted because you can be transient yet grounded all at the same time. It’s a fun way of playing house, the grown-up equivalent of setting out the tiny teacups, only the smallest of household items to take care of, a life almost void of responsibility. At the first campsite these permanent homes were wedged and slightly tattered, occupied by quiet long termers who came and went unobtrusively. At the last one there was a more established set of permanent inhabitants, and the long-term caravans were fenced in and bordered with plant pots and garden gnomes, festooned with seasonal tinsel and flashing Christmas lights. The one nearest our van was hosting a little family dinner when we rocked up. We weren’t invited but I suspect if we’d stayed longer, we might have been.

Funnily enough, Mr PC’s parents lived in a static home when I first met them – but a big, proper, box-shaped thing down by the river Thames. Mrs hated it, Mister adored it. In the end she won, and they decamped to the house. Their son tells me he secretly went to stay on his own once when his folks were away travelling. ‘It was a peaceful, private place,’ he said. We won’t be giving up our London apartment quite yet, but I can now see the point.

I’m wondering if there’s a way of locking down the camaraderie you get when you’re all getting along in a confined space – doing that organized morning dance of packing up and driving off, chucking tasks at SM and getting him to join in and actually enjoy joining in (sometimes). I’m not about to suggest building a den on the deck when we get back to Singapore, but I think there’ll be some new rules.

NEXT STOP: Sydney