On 12 July 2006, I shut the door to "normal" life for the last time and went to live in my car. I planned it as a brief cost-cutting experiment, but eight years later, my lifestyle change is continuing.

I was a teacher, but wasn't sure how I had got there – it was pulling me away from my dream of being a professional musician. When I started gigging, I seemed to find the same disposable income I'd have if I'd just worked a Sunday paper round. I realised that I had to change my life, and the cheapest option was being permanently on the road.

It turns out that living in a VW Passat is tricky at first. Four walls and a roof over my head, yes, but no tea and coffee facilities to speak of. When people find out about my lifestyle, they ask the same three questions. Where do you sleep? Where do you park? Where do you shower? Only women ask about where you go to the toilet. First things first, I got hold of a travel kettle that plugs into the cigarette lighter. Next I sorted out the sleeping arrangements. It took a while to perfect, but sliding forward the two front seats reveals what I call the back-seat bedroom. The problem of comfort and interior decor was solved with a bean bag behind the driver's seat, pillows to level out the back bench, bungee ropes, gardening wire, torches and some fetching bed linen.


It is now a haven from the outside world, where I can practise guitar late into the night or watch a TV serial on my phone or laptop without disturbing neighbours. One can park pretty much anywhere, although I check for restrictions and never park near a school or church, because there is too much noise and bad language early in the morning. As for hygiene, I use gyms, friends' houses or shower in the music studios where I work. If I'm desperate, I can wash my pants, socks or jeans in my shower. This works only in the height of summer, because they have to dry in the car.

My habits have evolved. I now use a gas stove, pots, pans and can cook anything one would in a normal kitchen. I wake early in the summer and late in the winter. Cereal, coffee and emails are the first order of the day. Then it's dealing with things like launderettes, promoting my band and food shopping. Work is always in the afternoon. I have produced four albums in my front-seat studio, consisting of a laptop, sound card, headphones and car speakers.

In the evening, I gig, teach or practise. I also travel to and from storage, where I leave all my bulky music equipment. I probably spend a fifth of what I used to spend on rent on storage, but they don't let you sleep there.

It is not paradise: I still work seven days a week, and there are still bills to pay. In the summer, there is the problem of shade from an early-morning roasting. In the winter of 2011, a few -17C nights provided a frosty welcome on my bedclothes. I always have to know where the nearest public toilet is. There is no running water, cheap electricity or refrigeration. Still, it beats wearing a suit for a living.


It is not illegal to sleep in your car, but I have been woken a number of times by curious coppers. When they realise I'm not whoever it is they are looking for, I'm free to drift off to sleep again. This spring, my original house died and I now live in a similar-sized Audi. I always said I'd have my own estate by the time I was 40, but I didn't think it would be like this.

I see no reason to end my lifestyle unless I'm going to go home to someone. Women have come and gone. There have been many long journeys. Some have just come along for the test drive, but most just get the sensible night bus home.

If you are part of the nine-to-five machine, you could save a fortune by living in a car, I guess. In my case, as fewer and fewer people see the need to pay for music, I struggle to earn enough to eat, let alone save for anything.

I pay my bills and taxes, and get my post sent to friends and family. They took a while to accept my way of life, but people always thought I was a tad eccentric anyway. None of them ever takes me up on my offer of a sleepover. I've no idea why. The car doesn't smell of anything sinister. Just lemon deodoriser, with a hint of socks.