Tall with gray hair and dressed in a fine leather overcoat and well-cut trousers. He could not have looked less like a van park resident if he tried. The long-term inhabitants who called the Rambling Rose home were generally dressed in torn jeans, flannelette shirts and some heavy metal band t-shirt. It didn’t matter which rock god adorned the shirt. They all looked alike. The odd tourist who stopped by on their way to Brisbane was usually a blend of chain store chic and tourist stand couture. This man was neither. He clearly had money. So why was he wanting to stay in a seen-better-days caravan park?“What are you staring at?” the man asked in a hard voice.Am I that obvious? “Well you just don’t look the van sort.” Nor the Red Kangaroo. Actually what the hell he was doing out in the middle of nowhere was the question.“I want to rough it for a while.”“I see.” Trendy urbanite wanting to play trailer trash for a while. Well, what the hell. It was his fantasy and Truro was happy to take his cash.