John Bradby

Hi, I'm John Bradby. I am twenty years old and you could call me happily homeless. Now, I'm not homeless in the way you'd think. I don't have a permanent residence or a postal address. But I do have a home. You see, I live out of my van. And, in my opinion, my van has everything it needs to qualify as a home.

It is decked out with seats that collapse into a bed, a bar fridge, cabinets, a sink and a small stovetop cooker. It even has a small television mounted in the corner. It gives me everything I need to get by. Shelter. Power. Somewhere to sleep. The only thing it's lacking is a dunny which, I'll admit, can be a bit of a nuisance at times. But there are plenty of public toilets in Australia and there are other, more primitive options when no one else is around, so that's no worries.

So in the traditional sense of the word you could call me homeless. I don't have a backyard to call my own. Or a letterbox with a number on it. But in reality I take my home with me wherever I go. Don't get me wrong. Life can feel a little spartan at times and it is a little cramped. But it is perfectly comfy. It's like a studio apartment Tetris-packed into the back of a van.

Now, don't start thinking I was forced to live in my van. I wasn't driven here out of poverty or hardship or anything like that. I chose to live this way. You could call me homeless and I'd tell you I am homeless by choice. Truth is, not too long ago I had a permanent place of residence. I lived at one of those shady suburban addresses on the North Shore of Sydney where everything is neat and tidy and homey as it gets. I was studying journalism full time at the University of Sydney and there were nearby beaches, like Manly and Mona Vale, which I surfed every day. My life had a sense of permanence and routine. It had everything that made me feel like I was home.

But then my dad died. Lung cancer got him. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but we always sensed it would at some point. After all, he was smoking